Run
by Yum
Summary: A call turns out not to be a call after all, but someone still needed help.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Run

**Author:** Yuma

**Summary:** A call that turned out not to be a call after all, but someone still needed help…

**Spoilers:** Set just after first season.

**Notes:** We saw on many episodes that Johnny Gage _really_ didn't like guns. I thought it might be fun to figure out why.

* * *

_**"Squad 51. Possible heart attack victim. 317 Ninth Lane. Three one seven Ninth. Cross street Concord. Time out 05:48."**_

Ninth Lane was not the kind of street anyone should be walking around on at this hour, John Gage mused. He eyed the squad's side mirror at the abandoned cars that dotted the streets, at stores with yellowing signs of "For Rent" on their windows.

"Maybe the other side," Roy DeSoto muttered next to him as he turned the squad around the corner again. "You sure it was Concord on—" Roy gave him a glance and a corner of his mouth quirked at John's scowl. "Yeah, of course you're sure," he mumbled.

John only grunted. He stared at the call sheet their captain had scribbled out, neat despite the haste it was written with. Roy always complained John's handwriting looked like Dr. Brackett wrote it. Not that Roy's was any better. Sometimes, _neither_ one of them could read it.

"Did we check that corner—never mind," John clamped his mouth shut at Roy's slanted look. Right. Roy did the driving and he did the pointing. That's how it was.

John squinted through the passenger side window. He avoided looking at his watch though. Roy was already checking his every minute. The silence in the squad was suffocating as they both scanned the streets.

"You should have at least let me take a drumstick with me," John grumbled half-heartedly as he slumped back into his seat. He was tempted to get out and sprint alongside the squad. He might stand a better chance of finding 317.

Playing along, Roy scoffed. "You'll get sick again," Roy murmured in that practical way he gets. He leaned into the steering as he looked up through the windshield. His brow knitted as he tried to spot 317. "Remember what happened last time?"

John's lips twitched. Get one little virus from one little monkey and every sniffle gets him a threat of a 10-8 to Rampart these days. Still, this was better than gnashing his teeth each time Roy drove around the corner for 317 again.

His finger went up to count. "First of all, you can't get sick from Mike Stoker's chicken. It's _Mike Stoker's_ chicken. And second, I'm sure I got sick last time on something else."

"It was chicken. You got sick on the chicken." Roy pursed his lips and turned into the alley in-between Ninth and Eighth, careful to avoid the dumpsters that lined the vacant row.

John blinked, momentarily distracted from his survey of rundown buildings,his hand was left in mid-air. "It was? I did? On _Mike's_ chicken?"

"One in the morning last month after that darn cat in the drainpipe; you and Chet said you were still hungry and had the whole thing in the fridge. You two were miserable throughout the rest of the shift. Cap was going to call a Code I. Don't you remember?"

No, but Roy obviously did. His partner conveniently remembers a whole bunch of information sometimes. John folded his arms across his chest and watched as Roy turned another corner. Again.

"Huh," John grunted, his head cocked. He looked back at Roy.

"Well," John fumbled, "that was because it…it was one. I was going to eat it for breakfast today."

Roy did a double take and glanced over at John, turned to the front, then looked at John again. He sighed and turned back to face forward with a shake of his head and a mutter.

John's mouth crooked to the side but it soon flattened when he gave in to checking the time.

"Roy, it's been six minutes," John murmured. His stomach clenched. He cupped a hand over his eyes and stared hard through the windshield. The numbers went by without success: 312, 314, 316.

Roy wasn't put off by the change of subject. "I know." His mouth pressed into a grim line. "I'm just not seeing it. Do you see anything on your side?"

"Nothing. Just lots. Roy. Possible cardiac…at six minutes?"

"I _know_," Roy just repeated and the hands curled around the steering wheel tightened.

John dropped his hand and wished he had never checked the time. He clamped a hand over his left knee when it started to bounce.

The squad slowed to park behind a Buick in the ugliest green color John's ever seen.

"Why are we stopping here?" John leaned forward and peered up through the windshield at the stucco-faced building. "This is 316."

"There's no 317, just that crummy car that looks like a rusted frog," Roy grumbled as he grabbed the radio handset. He peered into the vehicle from the driver's side though, just in case. "LA, this is Squad 51. Can we get a repeat of the address?"

Three chimes and dispatch replied.

_"317 Ninth Lane. Three one seven. Cross street…"_

John heaved a sigh and craned to study the building again that took up the city block. No one was screaming or crying for help. No smoke or gas either. He scrunched up his nose and took a deep breath. Nothing.

"You thinking false alarm?" It wouldn't be the first time they were called out due to some dumb dare.

"Or a hysterical caller," Roy murmured. "LA, this is 51. We cannot find 317. Has the victim called again?"

_"Negative, 51."_

John and Roy exchanged a frown.

"Maybe 316?" John suggested although at—John stole a peek at his wristwatch again—_eight_ minutes, he'd really hoped it was only a stupid prank call. He didn't care if it meant they had wasted eight minutes looking for it. Let it be just a dumb prank call.

Roy nodded. "Worth checking out. Might as well since we're already here." He thumbed the switch on the radio again."LA, this is Squad 51. We are going to check out 316."

_"Squad 51," _acknowledged the dispatcher.

John hopped out of his side of the cab, a hand tightening the chin strap to keep his helmet in place. He was already going for the drug box and biophone and slipping the citation book into his back pocket. "Yeah," he grunted. It didn't matter if it was 316 or 317. _Someone_ called for help.

"I got the O2," Roy offered. He grabbed the frame that housed the green tank and trotted down the block to the front steps. "Hold on. I'm going to look for the building manager," Roy called out over his shoulder.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Wait here just in case."

"Right," John muttered. He kept his eyes on Roy's back as his partner bounded up the steps into the building. His fingers drummed the drug box handle, ready to grab it the moment Roy hollered. He was tempted to follow but someone needed to be ready if they needed to go elsewhere.

"D-don't m-move."

The stammer made the demand incoherent. John frowned to himself and twisted around but he reared back into the squad almost immediately with a yelp, his hands up.

John wasn't sure if he was more afraid of the gun pointed at him or how the gun shook.

Dirty, stringy brown hair nearly covered the huge blue eyes staring at him. The slouched posture made the man look hunchbacked but John knew he could meet the guy eye to eye (not that he would want to though). John swallowed as he stared at the trembling gun muzzle. _Oh man…_

"It's okay. I'm here to help. You the one who called us?" John tried in the steadiest voice he could muster. He wondered absently if the guy was hiding in the space between the dumpsters before. Hidden under the shadow of the building, the guy didn't look to be any more than a few years younger than him. Maybe. The lines around his eyes and mouth added decades to the pallor. Or maybe it was the gun.

"S-shut up. N-not another word." The firearm punctuated the command. It wavered to the side. "Th-hat it?"

John carefully tilted his head back to where the revolver was gesturing. He swallowed as he sighted the drug and code boxes inside the compartments.

"Well?" The demand made the gun go up higher. "Is that it?"

"You told me not to say anything!" John blurted out even while his head was ranting.

"Listen, funny man. Is that where the stuff is or not?"

"Stuff?" John lowered his voice. Geez, the guy was barely standing on his feet. John kept his words slow and clear, just like they taught him to keep a victim calm. John doubted Rampart's training ever took _this _intoconsideration though. "What stuff are you talking about?"

"The drugs!" The firearm was unsteady, too unsteady for John to even consider getting it from the guy. "Y-you guys carry drugs for people in pain, right?"

"Is someone in pain?" John tried again. He kept his eyes on the pistol. "Listen, I'm a paramedic, maybe I can help."

"That some kind of a doctor?" The gun steadied. "You don't look like a doctor."

Encouraged, John offered a smile. "Sort of, I can get in contact with a doctor over at a hosp—"

The gun jerked. "No hospitals!"

"All right! All right! No hospitals! Watch where you point that thing!" John gulped as the gun stilled, aimed for his chest now. John kept his hands up and wished he had an inch-and-a-half right this minute; nothing like a good blast of water at 800 PSI to solve any problems.

"Are those where the drugs are, or not?" Stammer gone, the voice grew harder, higher, more desperate and the hair in the back of John's neck rose.

"Take them out, right now! Hurry it up. No funny business! I have a gun and I'll shoot. I swear it. I-I'll shoot!"

"I'm a fireman,not a cop," John muttered as he turned his body slowly around to reach behind him.

"Shut up! I told you to shut up!" The voice was shrill. "Take that one out! Put that box on the ground and open it!"

John set the IV box on the pavement and slowly undid the latch. He flipped the top open and straightened up.

"What is this?" The kid crouched to the box and wrapped a fist around one of the packaged pouches. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"That's saline," John explained, slowly because the gun was shaky again as the boy tore open the pouch with his teeth. The saline splattered to the floor like one of Chet's water balloons.

"It's just water! Where's the stuff? The drugs? I know you got them! Get that other box out!"

John swallowed but he twisted around and took out the drug box with one hand, his back pressed against the squad.

"Listen," John began. "This box has some heavy stuff. You need a doctor to—"

"Shut up! Hurry up! Faster! No more tricks!"

"Take it easy! No one's going to hurt you—"

"I said shut up! Shut u—"

John never knew if it was because the gun was faulty, the mugger was or it was just a run of bad luck.

It fired.

John felt a line of heat that sliced his upper left forearm. It was a hot bite that sent him slamming back into the squad and he sagged against the shelves in the compartments.

That _hurt_.

It was easy to find the wound even in the dark. John gritted his teeth as his right hand clamped over a deep, burning gash on his left bicep, just below where his sleeve ends.

"Ouch," John ground out. He looked down at himself. Not a lot of blood. A graze, he decided but it hurt a lot more than a graze.

"S-see what you made me do?" The boy sounded close to tears.

"What _I_ made you do?" John gaped at the guy. He bit his lower lip. "Listen, just…_argh_…take the box and go. Okay? I don't want any trouble. Don't make this any worse for yourself than it already is."

The guy looked like he didn't know where to point the gun anymore. He stared at his own hand like he'd never seen it before. "I-I…" he stammered. The boy gulped and the gun went back up to John's chest again. "Those drugs…you know how to use them?"

If John weren't too busy trying not to throw up, he would roll his eyes. "Look, if you're trying to get help for someone, we—_I_ can help you, but you gotta…" John breathed out sharply between his teeth. Graze or not, it was really starting to burn all the way down to his fingers. "You gotta put that gun down."

The boy bit his lower lip. The gun he held dipped.

"Johnny?"

The faraway call, down at 316, sent the gun back up again.

"Who's that?" the guy hissed. His eyes flitted from John to where the shout came from.

"My partner," John said and immediately he regretted it when the gun swung towards that direction.

"Your partner? Is he like you? A para…a para whatever?"

John pretended to scoff. "Him? No. He's…he's just a fireman to help me carry all this."

"A fireman?" the guy repeated. He screwed up his face and eyed Roy's direction.

John gave a shaky laugh. His arm throbbed and he was forced to let go so he could wave towards the drug and IV boxes. "Do you see what I've got to carry?"

"_Johnny_?" A little sharper now, Roy could be heard walking down the steps faster. John was about to turn around, shout to Roy to stay back when suddenly he felt the tip of the gun digging into his ribs.

The guy stood up his full length and his fingers dug into his good arm. His voice no longer stuttered and breathed hot on his ear.

"Pick up that box."


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Run

**Author:** Yuma

**Summary:** A call that turned out not to be a call after all, but someone still needed help…

**Spoilers:** Set just after first season.

**Notes:** We saw on many episodes that Johnny Gage _really_ didn't like guns. I thought it might be fun to figure out why.

* * *

"You're too late, fireman."

Roy furrowed his brow. He stood back, grateful the chipped painted door stood between him and Mr. Dunning, the building…manager. Dunning scratched his balding head. Yellowish teeth flashed into something like a smile through the crack behind the chained door.

"You're looking for 317?" Dunning laughed, sounding like he was sawing wood. "Old 317 was a dump. Burnt down to nothing months ago. You coming to put that fire out, you're too late, fireman."

Roy was rewarded with more sawing wood and a sour whiff of whatever it was that gave Dunning such good humor this late hour.

"We…ah…we were called in. Someone here may possibly be having heart problems," Roy tried again. Dunning was finding everything he said funny.

"Not surprised. This place got everything else." Dunning laughed until he sounded like he was out of breath and the old man clung to the edge of his door, hacking. Roy took a discrete step back and wondered if perhaps _Dunning_ needed a paramedic.

A few more tries only made Dunning laugh harder before Roy thanked him and went back down the stairs with his O2 tank. He stopped at the foot of the stairs, made a mental note to ask Cap to put 316 Ninth on the top of the safety inspection list and headed straight for the door.

_Johnny will not be happy to hear this_, Roy thought as he yawned behind a fist. With his luck, he'll hear about the fried chicken again all the way back to the station. And while normally, John sticking his head in the fridge was none of his business, helping John hold his head up while he retched into the toilet all night wasn't something he wanted to experience again either. And when his fever shot up, Roy was that close to running his partner down to Rampart himself—

_Ping_.

Still inside the building, Roy froze, his hand holding the door open. It was a sound he heard enough times in the service to know, even when it was faint, that it wasn't good.

Roy pressed his back to the wall, slid into a crouch and pulled the O2 away from the door. When it didn't happen again, he opened the door a crack and checked outside.

The squad could be seen further down the block but he couldn't see anyone on the street.

"Johnny?" Roy called out. He tensed, his head lower but there was no answering _ping_. Roy breathed out slowly and with his right foot, nudged the door wider.

There was a faint hush of traffic in the distance, the hollow sound a wind makes blowing between buildings.

But nothing else. Not even a puzzled, "Roy?"

Something cold prickled up his arms and Roy gave the street only another check before he threw the door wide open and stood at the top of the steps that led him to 316.

"_Johnny_?" Roy felt like he was shouting down into a hole. His voice echoed and someone in 316 opened a window and yelled something derogatory back down at him. Roy absently waved an apology over his shoulder as he eyed the squad in the distance. Roy gripped the cage that housed the O2 tighter and jogged towards the red vehicle.

The closer he was, the faster his legs pumped and even though in reality, it took mere seconds, it felt like hours later when he reached the squad.

It was empty.

"Johnny?" Roy checked his side of the squad. He could feel a painful thumping against his ribs when he looked at the other side.

Pristine, as if set on the ground as a road marker, was a helmet. Squad 51's lettering glowed white in the dim.

Roy stopped short of picking it up. He stared at the helmet, his Adam's apple working when he realized there was a burst IV bag lying on the pavement. The IV box was left on the ground by the drying spot.

The doors to the compartments were opened and the empty spot where the drug box should be was unmistakable.

Roy spun around to study his surroundings once more. Did John find their heart attack victim? No, John knew better than to run off without his biophone or the defibrillator. Or his _partner_. He stared hard at the buildings behind him, the lots of burnt-outshells of brick and mortar. He strained to hear any sounds of distress but other than the backfire of a muffler faraway, there was nothing.

The helmet's brim scraped when Roy picked the headgear up. He held it with both hands and stared at the empty spot in the compartment, at the smudge of dirt John missed when he cleaned—

Wait.

Roy squinted and took another look inside the compartment. The helmet dropped from nerveless fingers.

A bullet hole.

Roy skidded on the spent IV bag as he wrenched open the passenger door and scrambled into the cab. His hands shook as he fumbled for the radio handset.

"LA, this is squad 51…"

* * *

Hank woke up briefly to take the call from dispatch at 05:48. It was automatic, sleepwalking as the tones warbled out and got him out of bed, to the radio, the job slip already scribbled before the address completely registered. He did wake up further when he witnessed DeSoto with a hand curled firmly around the back of Gage's collar, like a cat carrying a kitten by the scuff of its neck, dragging the younger man out of the kitchen. Whatever Gage was saying—his mouth was full—was aborted at the call. Gage swallowed, gave DeSoto a burp that earned him a dirty look from his partner, and dove into the shotgun seat, all-business. Whatever those two were arguing about was shelved and would wait until after the run. That's just how they were. Hank stared at the back of the departing squad, slapped the garage door shut and shuffled back to bed, chuckling under his breath. He went back to sleep immediately. Because that's how a fireman's life was.

Primed to wake up at an alarm's notice, Hank jerked awake again at a sound he wasn't sure about. In the dark, his face buried in his pillow, Hank frowned to himself when he realized it wasn't the dispatcher, but his phone.

"It's probably for Gage," Kelly mumbled from beds away. He growled into his pillow. "When he gets back, I'm gonna kill him."

"Shut up," Lopez yawned. Almost immediately, a snore followed.

Hank sighed and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. If it was one of Gage's girlfriends, he was going to make the kid do hose and ladder drills in full gear (well, maybe not in this heat) all afternoon later. Then latrine duty for the month.

His hand blindly groped around for the phone and he pulled it to his ear.

"Station 51," Hank yawned, his eyes still closed. He was too tired to sound disapproving to the caller.

_"C-cap?" _

Hank's eyes flew open.

* * *

"Geez," Kelly muttered under his breath behind Hank.

Hank silently agreed as the engine rolled past one decrepit building after another. He didn't look at their numbers. There was no need. Stoker was driving towards the red and blue lights of the police cars collected at one end of the empty street ahead.

People's heads were poking out of windows of buildings Hank would have condemned long ago. Some sat on their sills, fanning themselves with whatever they had convenient, looking down at the business below. Others leaned out of the front doors, wrapped tightly in their bathrobes, gawping at the scene like it was the late, late show.

"Where's the fire?" someone shouted above in one of the buildings they drove past. Hank scowled through his window at the scattered cackling he heard in response.

"Isn't it past their bedtime?" Kelly grumbled under his breath behind Hank, but Hank ignored him because he found what he was looking for.

"Mike," Hank nodded to the flares that dotted entry to the street. Stoker silently nudged the steering, their Big Red lumbering towards their squad huddled by the curb in the middle of the street, surrounded by people Hank didn't recognize.

DeSoto was seated on the hood of one patrol car immediately behind the cones, his head nodding almost too slowly to Officer Vince Howard. Hank could see there was a helmet on his lap, but there was already one on his head. Hank's throat tightened at the sight of DeSoto's hand loosely resting on top of the gear. The paramedic only looked up once: when an officer tried to tell Stoker they couldn't stop here because the area was a crime scene.

God Almighty.

_We should have rolled out with them_, Hank thought as he climbed down the Crown, fully aware of his men joining behind him.

"It's okay," Vince called out to the officer at the barricade. "That's his station."

Hank nodded curtly at the offered apology as he steered straight for his teammate.

"You okay?" Hank asked as soon he was within hearing distance. DeSoto looked up, a little dazed as if he'd forgotten he'd called his captain right after calling the dispatcher.

"Cap." DeSoto sagged. He held up a helmet, both fists clutching it like a flailing two-inch. "Johnny's gone."

The ground rocked under his feet and he heard Lopez behind him mutter a prayer in Spanish.

"John's dead?" Hank managed out.

DeSoto's face contorted from horror to chagrin.

"No, no, no, he's…" DeSoto glanced over to the squad parked down the street. He swallowed. "He's alive. He's…" DeSoto clutched the helmet tighter. "He's alive, Cap."

Hank hated how it sounded like DeSoto was trying to convince himself and not everyone else.

Kelly exhaled loudly behind Hank. "But you just said—"

"Missing," Vince interrupted. He clapped a hand on DeSoto's shoulder. "What he's trying to say is that Gage is missing." The officer nodded towards the squad, surrounded by men who Hank assumed were detectives. They were staring into the compartments for some reason. And the sight of someone else besides his men touching his machines sharpened Hank's voice.

"Missing? What the hell happened?"

DeSoto flinched. He dropped his head and his palms brushed the top of the helmet as if wiping it clean of soot.

Hank took a calming breath. He tried to think of it like a fire. Yelling only served to ratchet up everyone's nerves, thinking gets cloudy, lives could get lost.

"Roy?" Hank took the helmet away from DeSoto. The younger man blinked. His hands flexed in the empty air before he met Hank's eyes.

"We were going on that cardiac call." DeSoto nodded towards an old, broad building that stood dark in the distance. "But there wasn't a 317. We looked."

Vince sighed. He tipped his helmet back with his pen. "Whoever called knew that. I remember that place. Station 18 responded to that last year. Couldn't save it."

"So someone called it in on purpose?" Hank growled.

DeSoto's head shot up. "Someone _wanted_ us out here?"

"Maybe not you specifically," Vince pointed out, "just any paramedic. You guys were just the ones lucky enough to get the call."

"Some luck," Kelly muttered under his breath.

DeSoto was staring at the squad as people had their arms deep in the compartments. He grimaced as boxes were pulled out and left on the ground, metal was cut. It sounded to Hank like they were pulling the squad apart.

"Evidence," Vince explained when he noticed Hank's attention.

"Evidence?"

"That bullet could—"

"_Bullet_?" Hank exploded. His head whipped towards Roy. "Are you all right?" he demanded when he realized DeSoto had never answered the first time.

"When I got to the squad, no one was here." DeSoto stared at the helmet Hank still held. His throat worked. "And…there…there was already a bullet hole within the compartment."

"There wasn't any blood found," Vince said and he made it sound like that was supposed to be a good thing. Hank tried to feel like it was. "That could have just been a warning shot. Make John move, leave." He tilted back his helmet and glanced behind him at the squad again.

"Two of your boxes are missing," Vince noted.

"The drug box and the IV box," DeSoto reiterated dully. His eyes widened and he looked up. "So this…it was about the drug box?"

"You think it's just a robbery?" Hank asked. He now found himself holding the helmet tightly to his chest. "They were trying to rob the squad?"

"Or," a deep voice interrupted. "Maybe there was no robber." A large barrel-chested man in a dark, rumpled suit approached. He scratched the end of his pen on his head of thinning blonde hair.

Narrowed green eyes studied DeSoto in a way that made Hank's insides boil. "From what I hear, what's in that drug box of yours…could make a pretty penny on the street. Your buddy could have run off to make a fast buck."

Hank didn't need to turn around to know how DeSoto would react.

"He wouldn't do that!" DeSoto bumped against Hank's back. Behind him, his men were saying the same, also surging forward. It felt like he was shoring up against a flashflood.

Hank raised a hand, both to halt the protests behind him and the accusations in front of him. "I can assure you, Detective…"

A meaty hand extended. "Richards."

Hank didn't take it. "Detective Richards, I can vouch for my men, _especially_ John Gage. He's not in this job for a fast buck."

The narrow eyes gentled and a smile curved thinly, changing the detective's face to something more pleasant.

"Yeah," Richards murmured. "You don't go through that many weeks of training to rip off a box of drugs." He crooked a smile. "My baby brother is in Squad 137."

"Then why—" DeSoto exploded.

"Because someone was going to ask that question sooner or later, Roy," Hank interrupted as it dawned on him. He gave DeSoto the helmet back so the paramedic could have something physical to do with his hands before he did something they'll both regret. "Isn't that right, Detective Richards?"

Richards only confirmed it with a curt nod. He looked down at his notepad. "We found this nearby." He lifted up a plastic bag with a note inside. "Can you identify it?"

DeSoto took it and stared at it hard like it was a map. He gulped and passed it to Hank.

"It's from the citation book," DeSoto croaked. "My partner usually carries it."

Sure enough, the crumpled white form was from a citation book. Hank rubbed a thumb lightly across the baggie that held the paper. He frowned at the smudged scrawl. The letters ran together and it took a few squints before the lettering made sense. Sort of.

"'Frog 1G9'?" Hank read. He checked with DeSoto but the other shook his head.

"I can't even tell if it's Johnny's handwriting," DeSoto said. His eyes tracked the note as Richards reclaimed it.

"Found three of these on the street," Richards explained as he pocketed it. "I was hoping it was some firemen's code."

"No." Hank shook his head. "Sorry."

"Yeah, well…" Richards sighed. "We didn't find any blood, minimum signs of a struggle so hopefully it means your man had the sense not to put up much of a fight with his attacker, otherwise…"

"Otherwise?" DeSoto repeated, his voice rising.

Richards glanced at DeSoto then moved his gaze over to Hank before it swung to the squad.

"Why don't you come with me and see if there's anything else missing, Roy?" Vince suddenly suggested.

"Otherwise what?" DeSoto pressed, ignoring the tug on his elbow by Lopez.

"Come on, Roy," Lopez insisted. He threw an arm across DeSoto's shoulders. "Let's check the squad." He managed to steer DeSoto away. Vince followed behind but not before giving Hank a look over his shoulder.

Richards sighed and wrote something in his notepad.

"Otherwise what, Cap?" Kelly spoke up from behind Hank.

Hank pushed back the lump in his throat. "Chet, why don't we search the area and see what we can find?" He hoped he wouldn't find anything. What a thing to pray for but he really hoped to God he wouldn't find anything. Not Johnny. Not like that.

The detective gave Hank a nod, an unreadable dark expression on his face before he excused himself to rejoin the swarm around the squad.

This wasn't a fire, but Lord, the same twisting feeling he gets whenever he sends his men into the devil's mouth was the same.

"Cap?" Kelly was like Boots with a shoe. He just wouldn't let it go. "Otherwise what?"

"Come on," Stoker unexpectedly said. "Let's head up Eighth." He didn't look at Hank as he led Kelly back to Big Red to get some flashlights, but Hank could tell from the stiff shoulders across the turnout coat that Mike Stoker was thinking the same thing.

_Please God, don't let us find anything._


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Run

**Author:** Yuma

**Summary:** A call that turned out not to be a call after all, but someone still needed help…

**Spoilers:** Set just after first season.

**Notes:** We saw on many episodes that Johnny Gage _really_ didn't like guns. I thought it might be fun to figure out why.

* * *

…

It sure was dark in here.

At least it was a big car. Buick maybe? Bigger trunk space.

Not that it was anything to cheer about.

John grimaced as the car bounced again. Lord, he hates bad drivers! It felt like it was only a little bump but in here, in the trunk, with his legs and arms folded in front of him like a mummy, it felt more like it ran over a sinkhole.

A bunch of little bumps. Felt like train tracks this time.

_Ow ow ow ow ow. _

John fumbled around for his citation book again. Elbows and knees bumped and scraped as he wiggled to get what he needed. He scribbled out the words again, wishing for the umpteenth time that he had seen the entire license plate before the kid shoved him in here. He rolled up a sheet in his fist and hoped it was legible. Hoped it made sense. Hoped someone would find it. Preferably Roy.

Bigger bump. This one so hard John hit the top of the trunk hood with the side of his head. Light came back but from behind his eyes. John clamped both hands over his pounding ear.

"Hey!" John hollered and as hard as he could, kicked the backseat repeatedly from the inside with both his feet. "At least respect the speed limit!"

_Real dumb_, John thought after a moment. Kid has a gun, nervous as heck and now probably peeved at John for all his yelling. John's mouth twisted. And before he could tell himself what a dumb idea it was again, he kicked once more before he shoved the rolled up citation out the rusty hole he made bigger with a piece of metal he found stuck in the bottom of the trunk. He had found it when it scratched him on his back.

Great, he's probably gonna need a tetanus shot after this.

His citation book was halfway used up and the pen he carried with it was no longer working right. The sheets were starting to get wet as John sweated. He couldn't tell how long he'd been in here, but it was heating up. His shirt and his undershirt were half-soaked and bunching up on his back.

There was nothing in the trunk save the metal shard that was embedded in the grimy rug on the trunk bottom. John couldn't tell for sure, but it felt like it was part of a screw. Definitely not strong enough or big enough to be any good to him.

John thought furiously for something, _anything_ and for a brief second, felt irritated to discover that every idea he could come up with would require the assistance of one of the guys at 51. When did that happen? When did John Gage suddenly need someone else to help him? He'd grown too dependent on them.

But boy, he wouldn't mind seeing any of them right now. Even _Chet_.

The car felt like it was going over gravel, the back wheels skidding and jittering. Occasionally, the muffler coughed and the back bounced in return. John gritted his teeth and covered as much of his head as he could. He felt like he was in a cement tumbler. His arm burned and was most likely bleeding again and his knees felt scoured, skinned despite his trousers. What a time not to be wearing his turnout gear.

When the ride smoothed out, John fumbled out the citation pad, tried to write 'Frog 1G9' again but it felt like he'd written 'Foop 1O8' instead. Damn it. He crumpled it up into a twisted knot of paper anyway and poked it out the hole but just as the paper was pushed out…

The car stopped.

_Uh oh._

The hole he made let in a weak beam of daylight. Dawn was creeping up from somewhere. The light blinked when a shadow crossed it. He could hear voices, yelling and the thump of car doors slamming before a shadow blocked the hole completely.

Hurriedly, John crammed his citation book up against the side of the trunk just as the hood lifted. He squinted up at the bulky shadow that stood in front of the sun.

Another face, a meaner one with a scar up his left cheek that gave him a permanent side sneer, glowered down at him. The kid, the one who put him in the trunk, was hunched behind the giant.

John didn't bother to try for a smile. All he could manage was a stare. A few minutes passed as blue eyes considered John and then—oh great—_another_ gun was pulled out and aimed at his head.

"Get out."

* * *

Nothing.

Roy found himself holding onto his partner's helmet again and fighting the urge to scowl or throw up. He couldn't tell which urge was stronger.

_I shouldn't have left him alone_, he thought as he rotated the headgear around in his hands. He sat on the hood of Vince's patrol car, his mind reeling, far too fast for him to nail anything down as the next course of action. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. His hand ached from the memory of how heavy the O2 tank was. He flicked a glance to the people on the street. As a fireman, Roy was used to rubberneckers milling about and gaping. Today though, he felt the urge to shout at them, scatter them away from the scene. What was the matter with him? His jaw worked as he could hear snatches of his captain's conversation with HQ on the HT. Roy diverted his attention to the squad instead.

Bullet slug retrieved, the vehicle was left alone now although there was still a policeman standing guard. The trauma box, the defibrillator, even the biophone were all over the ground.

"What a mess," Chet muttered from behind. He tipped the brim of his hat back with a knuckle. "They say when we can go back in there?"

"Not yet," Roy murmured. He stared at the passenger side door. It felt odd not to be sitting in there, inside the confines of the squad, bumping elbows with Johnny as they kidded and talked. What were they talking about before? It already felt like a long time ago. He was supposed to ask him about dinner tonight when their shift ends because Joanne wanted him to meet Li—_Joanne_. He should call her. She would want to know. Should he also call John's—

"He's all right."

Roy lifted his heavy head towards Chet. The fireman scratched his mustache with a thumb.

"He's probably walking back over here as we speak." Chet clapped his shoulder. "Guy got the drugs he wanted, ditched Gage at the side of the road. You know how Johnny yaps. That would have turned the guy off."

Roy tried for a smile. He failed. He turned back to the helmet on his lap and swallowed.

"Left him alone by the squad," Roy rasped. "I grabbed the O2 and left my partner there. Alone." Something bubbled up his throat. "And for what? There was no victim here…no heart attack…no 317…" Roy sat up. Chet's mustache had a decided downward tilt. He rounded back his shoulders. He gave Chet a smile he didn't feel.

"You're right…Johnny's okay."

Chet slapped him on the shoulder again but it barely registered on Roy.

* * *

The irregular stacks of half-crushed cars stood high above him. They reminded him of the surfaces on Castle Cliffs he and Roy had tackled last month. John didn't stop to compare the crumpled layers of colored metal to the oddly shaped rock formations on Castle Cliffs though. He couldn't. Not with two guns poking him on his back.

"All right, all right," John grumbled when one muzzle prodded him on the back of his neck to raise his hands higher. His drug and IV boxes rattled in the kid's fists behind him, reminding him that he needed to pay attention and stop drifting. He squinted at the sun beating down on him as he was nudged through one turn after the other. His shoulders ached, his shirts stuck to his back and his hair was plastered to his skull. And—as a final insult but he wasn't sure if it was funny or not—John was now also hungry.

Great.

The random pillars of metal opened up and they approached what looked like a tiny structure of corrugated metal piled precariously like a house of cards. The rusty sign, nailed lopsided on top, read 'Carson's Salvage' with the E too washed out that the sign read 'Carson's Salvago'. The place looked like something John would have written a citation for—maybe six—and he couldn't help but note the random violations as he walked past. Acetone wasn't stacked upright, too close to a heating source, they didn't—

"In there." One gun jabbed on his arm, deliberately at the graze.

John clenched his jaw. "Nice place," he bit out. "Yours?"

A fist cuffed the back of his head.

"Just wondering!" John grumbled and he cupped the back of his own head. At least it wasn't hard enough to give him a concussion.

"Well, don't," the older man growled. Whereasthe kid was tentative when he tugged John out of the trunk of the car, this guy seemed to relish kicking at John's heels, tripping him, using the gun like a yoke.

"Doug—" the kid began.

"Shut up!"

John frowned. The kid stammered, the equipment rattled again. In the bright glare of day, the boy no longer looked scary, gun or not. Where he was scrawny, Doug towered over him in bulk and height. The only thing they both seemed to have in common were their eyes and the same light brown hair coloring. Now the kid just looked like a kid; a really freaked out kid.

Doug shoved harder at his back with the wordless demand to walk faster.

"Listen. You got the drug box. You could just—" John's knees buckled when something exploded just behind his right ear. He dropped and his forehead touched the ground as he doubled over.

"One more word, pal and you'll be needing those drugs, too," Doug snarled.

"Maybe we shouldn't…I mean, he said he was the only one who knows how to use what's in these things," the kid stuttered. "He may be the only one who can help Jak—"

Beyond the blood roaring in his ears, John could hear the kid cry out as 'Doug' told him to shut up with a meaty smack to his face. _What a rotten thing to do_, John thought dimly as he flexed his jaw, relieved it didn't feel like it was broken.

A hard metal rod dug deep into the meaty part of his right calf. John tilted his head up and glared at the white twist of the man's face.

"Get up now," Doug said coldly, "or I'll give you a reason why you can't."

John bit back what he wanted to say and levered up to his feet, managing to stagger back only a step when the ground tilted. Hands up again, John steered for the shack—it didn't look stable enough to be called a structure—and skidded to a halt at the sight of the cot at the back of the room, between the file cabinets and short ice box with no door, a creaking fan blowing hot air across the supine figure.

Doug curled a hand around John's good arm, the gun pressing into his ribs.

"Now you gonna fix our brother with those drugs, paramedic."

_Oh boy._

_

* * *

_

DeSoto stared at the tape recorder like it was a rattler.

"We got this from dispatch," Richards explained as he settled into a chair. He raised an eyebrow at the faces pressed onto the glass window of Hank's door but said nothing. Hank drummed his fingers on his desk as he studied the boxy device.

DeSoto barely glanced at it. "We should be out there looking for him."

Hank swallowed back a sigh. He's heard it all before. Not just from the paramedic, but from the rest of his men since HQ told them to wait in the station. They stayed as long as they could, stayed until the sun rose and a gray sky turned to a cloudless blue. They found nothing—dead or alive. Hank tried to convince his men this was good news, but as the engine rolled back into 51 even Hank couldn't help think of dire predictions.

Fire and emergencies cared nothing about a man down. While Desoto stayed until detectives cleared the squad, a burning traffic accident had sent Engine 51 and Squad 99 to Citrus. There was something wrong with watching DeSoto in his side mirror, standing alone by his squad as they pulled away. When they reunited at the station house, DeSoto looked ready to murder when he was ordered to wait for a relief partner to cover the remaining hours of the shift. Hank felt sorry for whoever HQ was going to send. He would be coming into a cool reception.

The detective tapped the tip of his pen to his lower lip. "We've searched everything within a one mile radius. Nothing. No drug box, no paramedic, no bod—" Richards thankfully didn't finish what he was going to say. "Look, what we have going are these slips of paper and this 911 call."

"'Frog 1G9'?" Hank repeated by heart because after countless times of reading the same scrawl on each crumpled page over and over, he's memorized it. "Any ideas at all, Roy?"

DeSoto shook his head. He stood by the door, arms folded across his chest, looking oddly like Gage, ready to bolt out to the squad at the first bell. Hank wondered if the older paramedic realized he was doing it.

"Then why don't we listen to the 911 call and see if it'll help?" Richards suggested and Hank had to admit, the detective was patient even when everyone around him wasn't.

The tape recorder cackled and beeped as the LA dispatcher took the next call.

_"911…what is your emergency?"_

The silence thundered with gasps and coughs before a gravelly voice came on. _"I think I'm having…having a heart attack."_

_"Is there anyone with you, sir?"_

Hank grimaced as the caller coughed. He certainly sounded convincing. The supposed victim wheezed as if out of breath.

The call stuttered on tape. _"…I'm all alone. I need…I need help. My chest hurts. Send one of them firemen paramedics here. Send them quick."_

_"Calm down, sir. Where are you located?"_

_"317 Ninth Lane. H-hurry."_

Hank blinked when the detective jammed his thumb on the 'Stop' button. He looked up at DeSoto, who shook his head.

"Tape's too garbled to tell. But it doesn't sound like anyone Johnny and I know," DeSoto said. He pressed a finger to his temple. He stared at the tape recorder as his finger massaged small circles over his right eye. "It sounded like he was certain about the address."

"And he asked specifically for a paramedic. Not an ambulance," Richards added. His face darkened, his brow furrowed. "Not easy to access an ambulance without being in it first."

"So it _was_ deliberate." DeSoto took a deep breath. "Someone called, knowing we'd come to help and they…" DeSoto slapped a hand on his thigh. "As if we didn't have enough to worry about with fires. Now we're targets of every…" DeSoto sucked in his breath.

"What does this mean for my partner?"

Richards rapped his pen on the tape recorder. "We got the original recording to our labs. Maybe—"

"_Maybe_?" Hank scowled.

The detective sighed as he rose to feet and retrieved the tape recorder. "There's not much to go on and it's been five hours since…" Richards met DeSoto's wide gaze then averted his gaze to Hank.

"We're doing everything we can," Richards promised.

"Find him," Hank said, his eyes steady on Richards. His gut churned like it just had Chet's firemen stew again. "All we ask is that you find our man."

The detective looked like he wanted to say something more but he just nodded with a wan smile and left. The men by the door scattered as soon as it opened.

Hank leaned into his chair and wondered when did fire become the least of their problems.

"I never should have left him, Cap."

Hank lifted his gaze. "Roy…" but DeSoto was already gone. He stared at the empty doorway, Lopez standing in the middle of the garage. His arm was mid-air, left hanging after he had called after DeSoto and was ignored.

Kelly tentatively poked his head into his office. "So what we gonna do now, Cap?"

Hank thrummed fingers lightly over his aching brow and suddenly felt really old.

Then the tones warbled out. Structure fire on Wolcott. Dammit.

* * *

Crouched by the unconscious man's head, John rolled back the man's sleeves to get a pulse and froze at the old needle marks and collapsed veins on the paper dry skin.

"What's he using?" John asked sharply as he held the thin, bruised arm with both hands. Geez…

"It doesn't matter," Doug snapped and gave John another push. "Help him!"

"It matters because anything I give him could kill him!" John ground out as he slipped two fingers on the carotid. He couldn't get a decent reading from the upper extremities.

The body shuddered and bloodshot blue eyes cracked open. "H-heroin," he wheezed. "B…but I…" A tremor rippled through the body and John could have sworn the beat under his fingers skipped. "I quit…tried…"

Cold tickled down his back as John slipped his stethoscope on. He stopped and bit back a curse.

"W-what?" The teen, crouched on the other side of the cot, leaned over anxiously.

"My pressure cuff," John muttered. He gazed up at a pair of wide eyes. Same color as his patient, but paler with fear not pain.

"I need his blood pressure but the cuff is in the other box…back with my squad," John explained. He yelped when Doug roughly tugged his collar from behind.

"He don't need his blood pressure taken. You're not a doctor. He just needs drugs." The snarl by his left ear reeked of sour bourbon and just bad breath.

John grimaced and he yanked free, dropping back down on his knees by his patient. "Listen, I can't give him anything without knowing if it's safe or not! Anything I got might interact badly and—hey, don't mess with that!" John slapped away Doug's hands from the drug box. "You can't just fool around with that stuff!" John kept his fingers on the erratic beat even as he tried to meet Doug's face, then the kid's. "He _needs_ a hospital."

If anything, Doug looked like he was considering taking the IV box and beating John to the ground with it.

"D-doug," the teen whimpered. "What if he's right?"

Doug rapped his head with the heel of the hand holding the gun.

"Doug…"

"Shut up," Doug muttered. He smacked his lips together over and over as he paced a short line besides the cot. Abruptly, he spun on his heels.

"Where you going?" The teen sprang to his feet.

"Need to think," Doug grumbled as he reached the door.

"But—"

Doug suddenly twisted around and strode back to John before he could react. John grunted when Doug dug the tip of his gun into his ribs.

"You stay right here," Doug snarled into his ear. The gun poked deeper and John gritted his teeth at the bruising pressure. "I see you step out of here, I'll shoot both your kneecaps off. You got me?" When John didn't answer, Doug curled fingers right over his graze. "_You got me_?"

"Yeah," John snapped as he wrenched away from the larger man. "I got you!"

Doug grunted. He appeared more amused than annoyed at John's struggle. He flicked a glare at the boy across from John. "Watch him. Yell if he tries something. Use that damn gun I gave you." He didn't give them another glance as he stormed out.

John gritted his teeth as he probed the cut on his arm. Thankfully, it wasn't too deep but ouch! He avoided touching the area directly. The edges looked red, but luckily there was only minor bleeding. Clots were already trying to form to seal the wound. He'd probably still need a tetanus shot though. Man, this was nothing like the movies!

"I'm sorry."

John lifted his head. The youth bit his lower lip. He didn't look as threatening as he did before.

"I remember seeing some bandages in your stuff. Do you need to use them?"

With a smile he normally used with victims coming to inside the ambulance, John tried to imagine it was another accident victim he was trying to calm on the way to Rampart.

"It's fine," John told him quietly. "It isn't too deep. Won't even scar."

"Oh, t-that's good." The boy looked about ready to cry again.

"What's your name?"

"Huh?" The kid started. "Me?"

John nodded, keeping the smile on his face. The guy was what? John had originally thought twenties, but now he was thinking seventeen? Eighteen? "Well yeah. I know this is Jake." John indicated to the cot. Jake had lapsed into unconsciousness again. Not good. "And Mr. Personality who just left," John said in a dry tone, "was Doug."

There was a tentative quirk of the mouth at the mention of Doug. "Stevie. Stevie Car—" Stevie's eyes widened and his mouth snapped shut.

"All right, Stevie," John murmured. Good ole Doug probably warned him against names. "I'm John Gage. Okay?" He took a deep breath. _Here goes nothing..._

"Listen," John tried, his voice lowering to a steady lull. He tried to sound sure, tried to sound like his partner. "Heroin's heavy stuff. I'm not a doctor but I've seen enough to know we can't just mess around here. Your brother here needs more than drugs. He needs a hospital."

Stevie ducked his head. He absently stroked Jake's shoulder.

"Jake said no hospitals," Stevie whispered. "They gonna put him away again once they find out who he is."

John's brows knitted. "Who he is?"

Wordlessly, Stevie tugged down Jake's collar to show a tiny eagle tattoo just under the clavicle. John's eyebrows rose and he gave a low whistle.

"Army, huh?"

"Marine," Stevie corrected him, a hint of pride in his voice. He eyed the door and fidgeted. "Doug said it was a waste of time. Jake didn't listen to him. Signed up anyway."

John set the stethoscope's bell under Jake's shirt. "Vietnam?" he murmured as he listened.

"It messed him up," the younger man sighed.

John grimaced. "Sorry."

"Jake's a hero though," Stevie added fiercely.

John glanced up briefly from his concentration to the stethoscope. "I'm sure he is," John murmured. Stevie gave him a watery smile.

The ragged breathing had given John a funny feeling in his stomach before. Now listening more closely, John could hear the tiny bubbling crackling in his ears. His jaw set but he relaxed his expression as soon as he was aware of it. Rales. Damn.

"What is it?"

John inwardly winced. Stevie caught his look anyway. "Stevie," John said carefully. He made sure he used the kid's name. "How long has your brother been sick?"

Stevie ducked his head. Limp hair swept forward, concealing his eyes, but John caught him gnawing his lower lip.

"He was trying to quit," Stevie fumbled, "Jake didn't do drugs before, you know? But then he got back and…" Stevie sniffed. "But he was doing better with us. Doug said so. Theys got something different when we couldn't buy what Jake needed anymore. Jake said it helped."

"Stevie," John repeated, his stomach growing heavy with dread. "What did your brother get him?"

John already knew the answer the moment Stevie swung his eyes over to his drug box. Still, the word made his insides clenched.

"Morphine." 


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Run

**Author:** Yuma

**Summary:** A call that turned out not to be a call after all, but someone still needed help…

**Spoilers:** Set just after first season.

**Notes:** We saw on many episodes that Johnny Gage _really_ didn't like guns. I thought it might be fun to figure out why.

* * *

Nurse McCall—Dix if she likes you—nodded patiently as Bellingham described the rescue, leaning on her station while waiting for his partner to be stitched up by Morton. He was loud, probably for her new assistant Nancy's benefit. His hands, all covered in soot, reeked of smoke, oil and…tacos?

No wonder he was called 'the Animal'. Whew.

"…and it just jumped right on top of Doro and it's yowling and Doro's yelling 'Get it off me! Get this hairball off me!' Meanwhile, my so-called unconscious smoke victim comes to and starts whacking my partner with her hat for manhandling her ca—Hey, DeSoto. Any news on Gage?"

Dix's head shot up sharply at the mumbled "No" as Roy approached her station. The burly paramedic gave Roy a thump to the back that had Roy stagger a step forward.

"That's rough, man," Bellingham said, his mouth twisted. Just then, his radio snapped into life from LA. "He's okay. Probably hitchhiking back to us as we speak." He lifted his handie-talkie to his mouth. "Squad 39," he confirmed. He gave Roy a shrug and a sheepish grin. "Listen, we gotta go, but you know everyone at the station's pulling for your partner, right?"

Dix studied Roy's profile. Her heart sank. Joe had told her what had happened when she reported to duty this morning.

"Not a word?" Dix coaxed Roy to stop looking at the stretchers that rolled by. He stared at them with a bit of fear.

"Nothing." Roy swiveled around and he lifted the radio he held as if he wanted to use it as a hammer on her counter. Thankfully, he remembered, giving her a guilty half-grimace, before lowering his arm. He set his arms straight down on the surface, bracing himself.

"I'm supposed to replace the boxes and wait for Johnny's…relief," Roy bit out the last part as he handed his list to Nancy behind her. Nancy shot her a nervous look before she started grabbing everything on the list.

Dix winced. Now she got why Roy looked like he was ready to tear some limbs apart. It was unsettling to see Roy DeSoto this way. Last time he acted like this was when poor Nurse Shelley had foolishly refused to let him follow in with Johnny's stretcher a few months back. His voice, hoarse from the Brea wildfires, was still loud enough for Kel and her to hear him three rooms down. Petite and green Nurse Shelley transferred to Geriatrics pretty much after that. Johnny took her out to dinner after his discharge. As an apology by proxy, he had claimed with a toothy grin.

Dix's eyes pricked at the corners. _Oh, Johnny._

Whoever the poor sap was coming to meet Roy was doomed to be like Shelley. Dix doubted dinner with John Gage was going to cut it once Roy DeSoto let the guy have it.

"Listen, the police are looking into it, right?" Dix soothed.

"Yeah." Roy's head bowed low to her counter. The corner of his mouth quirked but flattened quickly after. "Detective Crockett heard and volunteered to help Richards."

"There. See? Johnny's going to be okay. You got all these people out there, Roy."

"I shouldn't have left him," Roy muttered, his head shaking. "Not there. Ninth's not exactly Rodeo Drive but I just left him there."

The drug box Nancy was filling rattled in her grip. Dix shot her a look, her eyes narrowed. Nancy hurriedly turned back around to face the cabinets.

"Joanne's besides herself," Roy went on. "We don't know what we're gonna tell the kids."

"What's to tell?" Dix returned. She rested a hand over one of his fists. "Roy, we haven't heard anything yet. Don't count Johnny out. Look at all the crazy rescues he came out of before."

Roy chuckled weakly to himself. "Some of that were pretty crazy, huh? I always thought he was—" Roy stopped. Something on his face twisted. "_Is_." Roy screwed up his face. He jerked his fist out from under Dix's hand without warning.

Before Dix could say anything more, Kel was coming out of Exam Two with their regular elderly walk-in, Harold Dempsey, under his companionable arm.

"Thanks, doc," Harold rasped. He coughed wetly behind a fist. "I be sure to finish the whole thing this time," the hunched man wheezed as he nodded to Dix, as politely as if he was tipping a hat to her. "Miss Dix."

"Try to stay away, Harold," Dix chided him as Harold shuffled past. Harold nodded, rasped out a promise as he shambled towards the exit.

"Roy," Kel greeted. He slipped his hands deep into his pockets. "Any news on Jo—" Kel's mouth snapped shut when Dix shook her head behind Roy.

"Dix," Kel cleared his throat. "Can you let Judy know Harold was here again? I tried to get him to stay and wait for her, but he insisted on leaving."

"Harold's a regular," Dix explained when Roy looked towards the direction Harold left. "But can't get him to wait for Judy from Social to help him." She darted a glance to Kel. "Bronchi again?"

Kel looked like he still wanted to ask Roy about John, but at Dix's question, he sighed. "If he doesn't finish that batch of antibiotics, it'll be pneumonia." He ran a hand through his dark hair. "I don't understand why he won't just finish the full prescription. If he did, it wouldn't keep coming back."

"Maybe Harold's lonely? He could be faking it. So he could keep visiting us," Nancy volunteered from the cabinets. Dix resisted rolling her eyes at the higher twitter in Nancy's voice and the eye flutter. Good grief. She shot Kel a warning to be nice.

Kel never saw it but apparently he remembered what Dix constantly warned him about. He shook his head. "No, you can't fake coughing like that. Even without a ste—Roy?"

Talking about Harold had pulled Dix's attention away so it came as a surprise when Roy abruptly straightened up away from her counter. He never turned from the direction where Harold left, but his entire posture was charged as if his radio had burst into life. But it never even crackled.

"Roy?" Dix prodded carefully.

"Uh, is the drug box ready?" Roy said, almost absently.

Nancy's brow furrowed. "Just about. I need to go downstairs and get—"

"No, that's all right." Roy took the box from Nancy. He gave Dix a weird little smile. "Can you tell…whoever they're sending over here…uh…I have to go—"

"Go?" Kel echoed. "Roy, what are you talking about? Wait—"

"I'll be right back," Roy said hurriedly. He hugged the drug box to his side and before Dix could ask, Roy was trotting down the hallway, nearly colliding with Mike Morton. Mike made a little arm flail as he did a two-step to avoid Roy. There was a hasty apology tossed over Roy's shoulder. And then he was gone.

"One more step to the right and I'd need X-rays," Mike grumbled as he joined them. He tossed a glower down the direction Roy disappeared off to, but his glare was tempered by a worried, "He heard anything new about Gage?"

Dix shared a helpless shrug with Kel.

* * *

The bag shook slightly in Stevie's grip.

"A little higher," John murmured as he moved the bell just under Jake's heart. He checked the lines that dangled from the saline. He wiped his arm across his brow. The fan oscillating behind him did nothing more than provide an annoying clacking sound that hung in the growing heat. Moving it closer didn't seem to help his patient.

John eyed the green speckled copper pipe that bordered the walls of the shack above them. "Say, that pipe up there. You think you can tie this tubing through the hole and hang the bag off that?" It would give the kid something to do. John's skin itched under Stevie's scrutiny and even though he tried to not react, John worried something would give him away. Roy always said he had a lousy poker face.

John watched Stevie thread the saline bag with the extra IV tubing. As Stevie strained to reach above him, John unpinned the caduceus button he got when he graduated from training. Where to put it? John hastily shoved it under the cot before Stevie turned around. He gave the kid a brief smile he hoped looked reassuring.

"This gonna help Jake?" Stevie asked. He fingered the tubing used to hang the saline. He didn't touch the one snaking down Jake's arm.

"Your brother's dehydrated," John said. He folded his stethoscope and hung it around his neck. There was no point listening to the crackling in the lungs again. He made a mental note of the respirations and pulse, but without several BP readings to compare…

John covered his frustration by turning back to Stevie. "He needs a little liquid right now. You said he's been throwing up?" At the slow nod, John continued. "Probably why he was so tired and having those headaches you were telling me about. This will be a little boost."

"He'll get better with this then?" Stevie reached out to the line but snatched his hand back before he touched it.

John studied the teen. The gun Stevie had was tucked into his jeans' waistband but he didn't dare try to grab it. John took a deep breath. "Now Stevie," he said in as serious of a voice as he could muster, "I'm not going to lie to you. Your brother is sick. Real sick. Sounds to me like he's been sick for a long time." John opened his hands towards Stevie. "He needs a hospital. There are experts there, better medicines than what I have, machines to take a better look inside. Even to at least get his blood pressure so we have an idea what's going on."

The door behind him kicked opened. From Stevie's guilty start, John knew who it was before he turned around.

"Here." Something was slapped hard against his shoulder, rocking him forward a bit. "That what you need to get his blood pressure, fireman?"

John blinked in surprise at the inflatable cuff in Doug's grip. He lifted his eyes up to the large man towering over him with a disgruntled expression. The scar on the side of his face was white against his flushed composure.

"That's Jake's old stuff. He was a medic," Stevie explained as John took the cuff.

"Shuddup," Doug snarled. "Don't go making friendly with him." His eyes narrowed at the IV bag. "And why the hell you go letting him stick needles into our brother?"

John scowled even as he examined the cuff. The manometer and bulb looked intact. The cuff, in fact, was well kept if not streaked with dust.

"He said Jake was dehy…real dry from all that sick. He said it would hel—"

"How's water gonna help him?"

"But he said—"

"He ain't no doctor! Don't go listening to him like he is!"

As Stevie was stammering to Doug, John ignored them both as he wrapped the cuff around Jake's upper arm. His jaw was set as he readjusted the stethoscope and began pumping the bulb. He could feel Stevie's anxious stare on his bowed head and it was definitely impossible to ignore Doug's knee digging against his side.

The soft hiss in the valve signaled the return of the artery's blood flow. John kept his eyes on the gauge. He fought to not react when the numbers started to level off.

"Well?" Doug toed the drug box closer to John. "You got your numbers. Now you give our brother what he needs."

John bit back a growl. _One_ set of numbers. He didn't know if the saline helped at all. "I need another reading in a few minutes to compare. I—hey!" John yelped as something swiped him behind the ear, like a grizzly just swatted him. Stevie's face, heck, everything dimmed for a blink. John grabbed the back of his head. He twisted around to glower at Doug and wished he hadn't when he found a gun muzzle pressed against his cheek. He froze.

"We already got what we need, fireman," Doug hissed. John could feel his eye twitch under the heated breath. "Don't think of yourself as so indispensable that I won't want to use this." The gun dug deeper until John was forced to tilt his head back.

"Doug," Stevie whined from behind him.

"Shut up! You should have just shot him and grab the stuff like I told you!"

John grunted. It felt like Doug bore all his weight on the gun. "You can't want your little brother to—"

A large hand grabbed him by the throat. The rest of John's words sputtered to a halt.

"Doug," Stevie was nearly as shrill as Big Red's sirens. "What are you doing?"

John could swear he could see himself in Doug's glare. "You do what I say, fireman." Fingers tightened just under John's Adam's apple. John coughed. "I've shot people for a lot less."

It was hard to breathe with his head arched back (although it could be the gun or the giant paw wrapped around his larynx). The cot railing dug into his spine and his hip burned where it was jammed up against its legs. John gripped the side of the cot to prevent himself from falling back into Jake.

"I need another reading," John bit out although it sounded more like "Eagle seeding" to his ears. The eye the gun was pressed under watered. "I try to give him anything right now," John went on hoarsely, "_Anything_. And he could go into shock, cardiac arrest, a whole number of things. If that happens, nothing in my drug box is gonna save him!"

"Doug," Stevie pleaded, "I don't want Jake to die."

There was a flicker in Doug's eyes. The iron grip around his throat eased and the gun tip didn't burn as deeply into his cheek. John exhaled a shuddering breath.

"That's why you did all this, right?" John said carefully, softly even though inside, he really wanted to throw up. "You can't bring him to a hospital but you want to help him."

"He's my little brother," Doug grumbled as if he wasn't happy to admit it. "We're all we got left."

John nodded. "Yeah. He's family. You want to save him. I get that. I do. I'd wanna do everything I can to help him but we gotta do this carefully. All right? I need to know as much as I can, get as much background info before I can treat him."

The gun slipped off his cheek. John wanted to sag but instead, he tightened his grip on the cot to keep upright.

"Doug." The whisper behind John was startling. He whipped around and gaped at Jake. Sliver of blue considered John before moving up to Doug.

"You're awake!" Stevie curled both hands around the closest wrist. He sniffled loudly and beamed at John. "You were right! That stuff's making him better, Doug!"

John felt Doug take a step back. The oldest brother stood there, at the foot of the cot, staring at Jake. John slipped a finger over the carotid. He swallowed to himself at the thready pulse.

"Let me talk to him," Jake murmured. Blood beaded on his gray, cracked lips. Glazed eyes turned to John and a cold trickle went down John's back.

"I know better than these two," Jake continued, his eyes languidly shifting to Stevie now, "what my symptoms are. He's right. Gotta…gotta be sure."

John could hear Doug's breathing evening out. He grunted and snapped his fingers at Stevie.

"We'll be outside." Doug stomped out. The sheet metal door rattled and the whole shack trembled when the door shut.

Stevie crouched, still looking at his brother. He bit his lower lip.

"It'll just be a couple of minutes," John told the teen.

Jake smiled wearily at the kid. "Go on. Let the fireman do what he needs to."

"He's…he's a paramedic," Stevie offered, his tone hopeful. "That's better, right?" John lowered his eyes and tugged at his stethoscope to get another BP. His gut twisted at Stevie's question.

The hand shook violently, but Jake managed to give his little brother's hand a squeeze.

"You did good," Jake assured him in a wispy, airless voice. "Don't let Doug get to you, kiddo."

Stevie sniffed loudly again before he straightened and left the shack. He closed the door a bit more carefully behind him though.

John sat back on his heels and studied Jake. His patient returned his gaze unblinking. Jake looked small and wasted in the narrow cot.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

"You lost, fireman?"

Roy grimaced at the spittle that flew with each syllable. He resisted the urge to take a step back.

"Mr. Dunning," Roy greeted wanly at the gray eye squinting at him under a bushy white eyebrow. "I'm Fireman Roy DeSoto. Do you remember me? I was just here before."

The door stayed open only the crack its chain allowed. Dunning hiccupped. His face looked odd with the spots of alcohol induced flush against the pasty complexion.

"I 'member you," Dunning grunted. He didn't open the door wider though; his narrow, hawk-like face filled the crack in the door. The chain rattled as he squinted up at Roy.

"Thought you left already. Told ya there was no 317."

Roy was beginning to wonder if the heat was getting to him. Showing up here was probably not the wisest thing he ever did. If Cap knew he was here…He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Listen, I just want to talk—"

"Talk?" Dunning made a sound that was a cross between a wheeze and a laugh. Roy's gut twisted. That was the sound on the 911 call. Whatever misgivings he had before evaporated.

"You made that 911 call last night, didn't you?" Roy blurted out. He shoved his boot into the crack when Dunning's eyes widened and the opening shrank.

"Please," Roy pleaded. He nudged his foot deeper into the crack. The wood creaked as Dunning tried to slam the door.

"Don't know what you're talkin' about," Dunning rasped. "Get a'ay from my door."

"Look, last night," Roy hurriedly said, "someone took my partner. He's been missing after we came here. I'm just trying to find him." He placed both hands flat on the painted wood when the door moved. "_Please_."

The door stilled. A bloodshot eye went up and down on him.

"I didn't do anything to your partner."

Roy forced himself to smile, his face straining from the effort. "Of course not." He lowered his voice. "But you made the call that brought us here. The police have a recording of it. I heard it. That _was_ you, wasn't it?"

The door strained against his boot. "You told the police about me?"

Roy hesitated. "No." He swallowed. "No, I didn't tell anyone." In the back of his mind, Roy realized maybe he should have.

Dunning studied him for a long moment. His mouth wrinkled and pursed.

"Your partner's missing?"

"Please," Roy whispered. He took a steadying breath before he could continue. "We found a bullet hole, no blood. I…I'm pretty sure whoever took him only wanted the drugs. If they just let him go, I'm sure we can figure something out." When Dunning didn't respond, Roy pushed at the door again.

"Mr. Dunning…I only want my partner back."

There was a long, drawn out breath that sounded like the arid Santa Ana winds cutting through trees. There was a quiet rattle and the chain dropped. Roy hovered by the door, his insides churning.

"Come on in," Dunning sighed. The crack widened, revealing the slouched building manager in his rumpled service shirt. The room reeked of spilt beer and dust. "Let's see if we can't find your partner, okay?"

At that, Roy set his mouth and strode right in.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Run

**Author:** Yuma

**Summary:** A call that turned out not to be a call after all, but someone still needed help…

**Spoilers:** Set just after first season.

**Notes:** We saw on many episodes that Johnny Gage _really_ didn't like guns. I thought it might be fun to figure out why.

* * *

"Huh?" Maybe ole Doug hit him harder than he thought. John blinked at Jake, the bulb to his pressure cuff forgotten in his hand.

"Thought you wanted to take another BP," Jake reminded him mildly. "Before Doug comes back in here."

John winced. Oh, right. He checked over his shoulder. "Yeah, hold on." He slipped the hearing bell back inside the cuff. After a few squeezes of the valve, John studied the gauge.

"Not good?" Jake guessed when John took another reading.

"Try to rest," John muttered. The shack shuddered noisily around them from the fan to the deep whooshing of the BP cuff. He squeezed the bulb to get another reading. "Now, what are you sorry about?" John asked as he mentally calculated the two numbers. He bit back a groan at what he came up with.

"I told them how to get the morphine." Jake dropped his head deeper into the stack of thin, stained pillows tucked under him. "I figured Stevie would just grab it and go. I didn't think Doug would give him a gun and…" Jake shrugged one shoulder then grimaced.

"Hurt?" John guessed. He pulled the stethoscope out from under the cuff and listened to Jake's lungs again.

"Rales?" Jake wheezed.

"No talking," John shushed him, partially to hear, mostly because he didn't know what to say at this point. He closed his eyes briefly at the hollow sound thrumming through the instrument.

"We really need to get you to a hospital." John offered the stethoscope to Jake for a listen, but strangely, Jake refused. Jake wore a strange, sad kind of smile that made John feel funny inside. It was like the ex-Marine knew something he didn't.

"No hospitals," Jake rasped. "Nothing there my brothers can't do here." The pale face twisted. "I go in, they're not letting me out again. Too messed up."

John made a noise through his teeth. "I can't do anything for you here."

"You can give my brothers the morphine."

"That won't help you." John opened the drug box and fisted one of the vials. "This," John shook it at Jake, "is just substituting one thing for another."

Unmoved, Jake stared at John's fist. "You don't give that to them, my brothers won't let you go."

John swallowed. He lowered the vial from Jake's sight. "Who says they will even if I do?"

"I say so." Jake gestured weakly towards himself. "Doug will do it if I ask."

"I won't though." John's chin stuck out. "I won't give them the morphine."

"I tried, you know," Jake murmured, more to himself than John. "The VA, the clinics, but the heroin was the only thing that helped quiet things in my head. Then one day, the money ran out. The morphine helped, when there was nothing else." Jake offered him a broken sort of laugh. "My brother. Doug? He tried, you know? He don't look it, but he really does care about me and Stevie."

"I can't give you the morphine," John said bluntly. He gestured towards the IV line, at the cuff still around Jake's arm. "Your vitals…" John breathed out sharply through his teeth. "Even if the morphine could help, and it won't," John added, "I can't give it to you. It could kill you."

There was a serene curve to Jake's bleeding mouth when he sighed, "Maybe. Maybe not."

"Stevie said you were a medic. Surely you know that—" John stopped. The air deflated prematurely in the valve. His eyes widened.

"You _do_ know that," John whispered. He could feel his mouth drop open as he gaped at Jake.

The former Marine's eyes were hooded, his face blotchy and gray.

"I'm tired," Jake rasped. His eyes slid shut then opened with some effort. "I can't lick this. The stuff in my head, the itch under my skin. Won't let me lick this. And I can't keep having my brothers try to find ways to help me lick this. I'm done."

"No." John shook his head. He leaned forward and peered at Jake. "Now you listen. We can get you to a hospital. Rampart. It's a good hospital, we can help you there." John's mind spun as he thought of what else he could say. He thought of the jumper last year. Roy had talked to the guy for hours until his voice gave out but John's memory failed him on what Roy had said. At the time, he was a little too busy holding onto Roy's lifebelt because the reckless fool was one big toe away from plunging ten stories down.

"What about your brothers?" John added desperately. His mouth soured when Jake shook his head. "How you think Stevie would feel if you just up and quit?"

John could see Jake hesitating at that. His heart sank when his patient shook his head again.

"Doug—"

"Doug," John grated out, "was the one who gave your little brother a _gun_." John raised his arm and tugged up his sleeve edge to reveal the thin gash that was looking redder and more swollen by the minute.

Jake stared at John's arm, his glassy eyes wider and riveted to the wound. His thin mouth parted, but no sound came out.

"Listen," John leaned forward, his voice urgent. "Stevie? He's just a kid. And he's scared and I know he's your brother, but Doug? He's not really helping you here. And when you're gone, how do you know he's gonna be helping your little brother? What if your brother just gives Stevie another gun?" John's hand shook as he squeezed his stethoscope.

"I know it's rough. You saw a lot of bad things but it doesn't have to be that way forever." _Come on, Gage. Think. Think! _

Jake waved weakly at the vial John had left by his hip. John pressed it into his palm and helped Jake raise it up to eyelevel.

"You see?" John stressed. He shook the loose fist he supported. "This stuff in the bottle? It's not going to help you. It's not going to help Stevie."

The ex-Marine closed his eyes. His shoulders sagged and he shrank into the cot.

"We could call for a hospital," John murmured, "I won't say anything to the police about your brothers. We'll get you the help you need."

The fist John held tightened around the vial.

"It doesn't have to be this way," John whispered, letting go. He watched Jake open his palm to stare blearily at the bottle. Blue-tipped fingers trembled as they closed around the morphine again.

"Get my brothers in here," Jake whispered. He smiled weakly at John. "Let me talk to them."

John gave Jake a pat on the shoulder before rising to his feet. He tentatively pushed the corrugated door, letting the bottom edge scrape noisily on the ground to alert the two outside.

"Your brother wants to talk to—"

The twisted scowl that appeared the moment the door opened caused John to rear back. Before John could take another step, a beefy arm shot through the door and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. Doug entered the shack, Stevie one step behind and John found himself trying to walk backwards until they stopped by the cot.

John gave Doug a glower that faded when he saw Stevie peering around the broad man.

"Jake?" Stevie found just enough courage to veer around Doug and rejoin Jake's side.

"H-hey." Jake smiled up at the younger man as Stevie tentatively brushed sweaty bangs away from his forehead.

"What we gotta do to help?" Stevie said real low.

Jake studied Stevie for a moment. His eyes slid over to John, held them a beat before moving them to Doug.

"Well?" Doug asked gruffly. He still had John's shirt twisted in his grip, tightening it around John like a noose.

_Come on_, John urged silently. He watched Jake take Stevie's hand, turned it palm up…

And dropped the vial in Stevie's hand.

"Get the bottles that look like this in his box," Jake whispered.

"_No_!" John wrenched free from Doug, who was too startled by John's sudden outburst to react. John practically threw himself bodily towards the cot, one hand capturing Stevie's hand before the teen could move.

"Don't do this!" John pleaded to Jake, but Jake looked away.

"Don't listen to him," John said to Stevie now. John's grip was firm over the boy's wrist. "The morphine won't help him!"

"I-it helped before." Stevie gave Jake an uneasy look. He tugged at his arm John captured. "Jake?"

Jake had his eyes closed, like he was sleeping, but he heaved a sigh at Stevie's tremulous voice.

"He's lying," Jake whispered.

"No!" John yanked hard at Stevie. The boy yelped. Doug recovered and wrapped his arms around John's shoulders from behind. John suddenly found himself hauled up, his feet dangling.

"Shut up," Doug growled. He grunted when John shoved an elbow back. A swat from his hand sent John reeling and his head rocked forward.

John strained against Doug pulling him back.

"I won't help you put that in him," John declared. He grimaced when Doug's grip wrapped tighter around him.

Stevie hesitated over the drug box, his cupped hands filled with vials. He looked over to his brother.

Jake gave the teen a weak smile. "I'll show you. Don't worry, Stevie—"

"Don't _worry_?" John cried. "Your brother is trying to kill himself! The morphine's just going to make things wor—" John yelped when Doug bodily slammed him to the wall besides the cot. The hard tip of Doug's gun dug into the base of his neck.

"Doug!" Stevie squeaked. The bottles in his hold rattled.

"What are you trying to pull, fireman?" Doug hissed. "Our brother needs your drugs, he's getting them."

"Your brother…" John bit out with effort because his cheek and eye were squashed into the rippled metal. The shack shuddered under his jaw. "Don't listen to him. In his condition, with those vitals, morphine is going to make things worse!" John gritted his teeth and positioned his hands between the metal sheet and his chest. He tried to push back but Doug's elbow was jabbing the small of his back.

"Listen to me!" John directed it to Stevie instead. "Your brother told me he was tired; said he had enough! He knows what the morphine will do to him with the way his lungs and blood pressure is. He…He wants to di—Ouch!"

The sun-heated metal surface bowed then popped back into shape when Doug slapped his hand over the top of his head, grabbed a fist of hair and drew back John's head before smacking it hard into the wall. The corrugated material made an odd _gong_ sound that rippled up the walls.

"Jake?" Stevie whispered. He held the bottles to his chest, his eyes huge. "J-jake? W-what's he saying…is that true?"

"Course it isn't," Doug spoke up as he dragged John away from the wall. He looked unperturbed even though John was twisting, struggling in his grip: an arm wrapped around his throat, just two squeezes away from being a chokehold.

"Jake's our brother. Carsons don't quit even when everyone around us expects us to." Doug rubbed his gun's muzzle point against John's ribs. John froze at the tiny clicking sound. He wasn't sure what that was, but it couldn't be good.

"Bet that morphine would look pretty good to you if I put a hole in your gut, fireman," Doug whispered in his ear.

"Doug," Jake rasped. "Don't kill him. Just…keep him away until Stevie's finished."

"Fine," Doug grunted. He backtracked to the door, easily dragging John with him.

"Don't do this! You can't put this on Stevie," John shouted. He threw both hands up around the muscular arm and tugged, but it felt like even the crowbar in his squad wouldn't have been able to pry him free.

"At least get him out of this oven," John kept trying. "This heat? Keep the IVs on him." He dug his heels in. Doug snarled and a fist grazed the side of John's head. His ears rung. Someone was shouting. Doug's arm around his throat eased. John wrenched free. He ignored the roar behind him as he stumbled back to the cot. He gripped Stevie by the shoulders.

The teen started and gaped at John.

"Don't do this. Don't let your brother do this! That stuff will _kill_ him. You won't be saving him," John rattled as fast as he could. Stevie didn't look convinced. In fact, the kid just looked scared. John grabbed his stethoscope and slapped it to Stevie's chest.

"Take my stethoscope at least. Listen to his heart. Every few minutes. If it starts to sound different, a lot faster and quieter than yours, call 911, get him help."

"Leave him alone," Doug growled. He grabbed the back of John's shirt. John shook him off, bumping into Stevie. Little glass vials tumbled out of Stevie's arms and rolled like scared mice under their feet.

It only enraged Doug more.

"That's it!"

A hand clawed his throat, just above his Adam's apple. John felt himself flailing, choking as he was hauled to his feet to meet Doug's bloodshot eyes.

"Doug," Stevie whined.

John pawed at the thick arm stretched out in front of him. He coughed.

"Doug," Jake whispered. "Don't."

The iron vise around his throat eased a fraction. Doug sucked in his breath. There was a rumble deep in his throat and he twisted around, yanking John to him. John threw Stevie a look, but his insides knotted when Stevie only stared back with huge eyes.

Doug never slowed down; he kicked the door open and John's hip stopped it from closing on him. He had to run—stumble—after Doug, through the mazes of stacked wreckage until they stopped in front of the car John was in before.

A gun jabbed him on his temple. "Get in." Doug yanked the trunk lid open and John recoiled at the waves of heat that escaped.

Dread lumped in his throat like ice. "Wait. You can't—"

"Lost your hearing, fireman? I said get in."

John gestured towards the sky and the sun slowly climbing to its zenith. "Are you nuts? That thing's going to be an oven in about an hour!"

Doug gave the car a passing glance. "Don't worry. It's under some shade," he grunted, nodding to the stacks around him. He herded John to the trunk with his gun.

"_Shade_? Even if it was night, with this heat—"

"_**I said get in**_!"

John swallowed, as he looked almost cross-eyed at the gun shoved to his cheek. He raised his hands as he slowly walked backwards to the green car until the back of his knees hit its bumper.

"Look," John said shakily. "You could tie me up, leave me by the car, all right? If you lock me in there…"

"My brother said not to kill you, but he never said anything about not hurting you," Doug interrupted. His face went expressionless, his eyes empty and that made John more nervous than watching that scar of his twist into a scowl. "Once Stevie's done with our brother, we'll let you go. Maybe on the PCH. You could hitchhike back."

John spared a look over his shoulder at the shallow compartment. He swallowed. "You put me in there, I might not come out."

"Well, that would be too bad now, wouldn't it?"

John's head whipped forward. Doug's eyes went flat.

"Get in. Now." 


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** Run

**Author:** Yuma

**Summary:** A call that turned out not to be a call after all, but someone still needed help…

**Spoilers:** Set just after first season.

**Notes:** We saw on many episodes that Johnny Gage _really_ didn't like guns. I thought it might be fun to figure out why.

* * *

A little old lady, hunched under the shade of her umbrella, pushed her shopping cart in front of his squad. She peered into his windshield and gave him an odd look but the heat deterred her curiosity. Her cart hopped as it went up the curb, scratching the squad's bumper as it rolled by. She shambled up the sidewalk, hip rubbing against the hood of his vehicle; cart clawing loudly enough bystanders grimaced, her umbrella waving above her. Roy ignored her. He sat in the squad, his jaw set as he studied the fenced gates and the rusty sign across from him. Watching. Waiting.

The place on Grove screamed violations. Its sign was three gusts of wind short of falling and the gate was discolored with enough rust to probably give someone distemper from just touching it alone. _Carson Salvage_ was scrawled across in a sign that was badly soldered; streaked red and green from the rare rain the area ever endured and simple neglect. And there was no one walking in and out of it. No cars came up to the gates. This was it. It has to be.

Roy gripped the steering wheel with both hands. He glanced over to his partner's helmet, left on the passenger's side of the dashboard. It never occurred to him to put it elsewhere. It belonged there, right next to him, damn it.

"So what now?" Roy asked it.

The helmet didn't answer.

Roy flinched and forced his scrutiny back to the front once more.

Good boys, Mr. Dunning had told Roy when he held up an old, water-stained photo with gnarled hands. He didn't offer Roy anything to drink nor did he offer a seat. The wizened building manager went right on explaining why he agreed to call in the emergency. Jake Carson and Trip Dunning were childhood friends, Dunning had explained. The two knew each other since middle school; they played together, went with their dates to the prom together and then went off to Saigon together.

Only Jake came back.

Good boys, Mr. Dunning had insisted as he pawed the photos in a smelly and dented cigar box to pull out the black and white photograph of the three Carson brothers to show Roy. Douglas, Dunning relented later, was a two-bit hoodlum suddenly back home to take care of two kids when their parents died in a fire. Dunning had looked over at that piece of news to glower at Roy. The firemen couldn't reach them on the top floor of their house. The boys' father had dropped them out of a bedroom window into a waiting neighbors' makeshift net; just before the roof collapsed over the parents. All was left was Jake and Stevie. And Douglas: fresh out of Folsom and suddenly guardian to a teenager and a kid who wouldn't speak for three months.

Jake held them together, got Stevie talking again and cajoled Douglas to partner up with their dying uncle to run the salvage yard business while he finished high school. He was going to be a doctor. Trip was going to be an engineer.

Then President Johnson pulled out Jake and Trip's numbers and they boarded a plane to Asia.

Roy pinched a spot at the bridge of his nose and sighed. This was the only Carson Salvage Detective Crockett found based on what Dunning knew. Of course, Roy hung up on the detective as soon as he had written down the address, not giving him the chance to offer another address. Roy suspected Crockett wasn't going to be too happy to know he was here, Richards as well. Heck, _Cap_ was probably right now devising ladder and hose exercises for him to run barefoot.

But his partner was there. Roy was sure of it.

The steering wheel squeaked as Roy's hands tightened around it.

The radio mouthpiece rattled when Roy grabbed it. He depressed the speaker, opened his mouth but nothing would come out. What could he say? What could he possibly say to convince LA to let him go in there and get Johnny back? He hung it back by the radio again and sighed.

"Just what do you think you're doing?"

Roy jumped in his seat. He twisted to his right and almost immediately sagged back into the bucket seat. Vince Howard glared at him through the open window, his helmet tilted back, his dark hands on the door.

"Hi," Roy managed to get out. At least it wasn't the captain.

Vince's eyes narrowed.

"_Hi_? Is that all you have to say for yourself? Crockett was right: you _are_ foolish enough to come down here on your own."

Then again, Cap might have been a better alternative to the fuming face leaning closer. A few more inches and Vince was going to find himself inside the squad.

"…and with your fire truck, too! Don't you boys watch television? At least choose something less conspicuous than a shiny, _red_ fire truck parked across the street! What were you going to do if the guy who took Gage was in there? What if he came after _you_? Shoot him down with your hose?"

"Actually," Roy stammered, "the squads don't carry water tanks to feed our…" He trailed off at the glare. Vince didn't seem to care.

"Roy," Vince said slowly, "What the heck are you doing here?"

"The voice in the 911 call," Roy plowed through because it looked like Vince was going to reach in and haul him out through the passenger window. "When I was in Rampart, it hit me that it sounded pretty close to the building manager of 316 so I went over and…" Roy hesitated.

Vince straightened away from the window and folded his arms across his chest. With the uniform, it made a formidable look.

"And what?" Vince asked archly, "You decided to head over there. _Alone_. And ask the guy where Gage was?"

Roy swallowed. "Uh…Yes?"

Vince rolled his eyes. He nudged back the brim of his helmet as he muttered. Roy gulped when he thought he heard Vince debating arresting him.

"DeSoto, I always thought you and your partner were crazy for all those risks you two take, but this…Of all the…unbelievable." Vince threw up his hands.

Roy leaned over John's side of the seat. "He told me it was never meant to be anything more than a robbery. The person who did this…Vince, he's just a kid. They never wanted to hurt anybody."

"They?"

Oops. Roy took a deep breath. "There's…there's three of them. Brothers. I—"

"Damn it, Roy!" Vince exploded. He gave the salvage yard a dark look before abruptly twisting around.

"What are you doing?" Roy exclaimed. He lunged forward and snagged the closest sleeve he could reach through the window.

"Calling for backup," Vince muttered. "Get Richards and Crockett here. They went to follow a lead in La Jolla."

"Vince, that's too far away. We can't wait for them to get here and if they start shooting…" Roy twisted the sleeve he held tighter.

"Vince, Johnny's in there."

The officer stilled. He looked at Roy then at the salvage yard. He sighed.

"We can't just barge in there demanding your partner back either," Vince pointed out. "Roy—"

There was a snap and sizzle of static from the radio.

_"Squad 18. Possible cardiac in 41-17 Grove Lane. Carson's Salvage. Cross streets Grove and Dame."_

Roy jerked her gaze to across the street. He stared at the sign before lunging for his radio.

"LA," Roy said to the mouthpiece he clutched to him. "Squad 51 is five minutes away. Will respond."

There was only a brief pause, but Roy had the cold fear in his gut that said maybe LA might disagree. He was far from where he should be, far from Rampart and Harbor as well.

_"Squad 51,"_ LA acknowledged.

Roy pressed the mouthpiece to his forehead and exhaled. He returned it to its cradle and slid over to get out of the squad.

"Roy," Vince couldn't keep quiet anymore as he tracked Roy trotting over to the side to get the newly replenished supplies. "What are you doing?"

Roy stiffened his spine and looked Vince squarely in the eye. He very deliberately put on his helmet and grabbed the drug box. "Getting my partner back."

* * *

The air tasted funny. John knew air could change from clean and crisp like water to thick and bitter with smoke. But right now, it tasted smokeless but just as airless.

Not good.

_Get in. Get out. Shoot, why couldn't that Doug make up his mind?_

John lost track of the count he started as soon as the trunk lid slammed down over him. Doug appeared unimpressed when John tried one last time to plea with him to call for an ambulance for Jake. John babbled the symptoms they needed to look out for even as Doug shoved him head first into the shadowy space. The trunk seemed to have shrunk since John was last in there. His shoulders rubbed against the clumpy carpet and the inside of the dented lid when he curled to his side to face the opening for fresh air.

Well, not really fresh air but the warm trickle of air, even though it felt moist and stale as an exhale, was the best John could get. He had also kicked out the taillight by his feet as soon as he thought he heard Doug leave, heard the lamp fall out on the other side but all it gave him was the occasional lukewarm breeze lapping sluggishly at his exposed ankles.

_Slow breaths_, John told himself. Nice and even, just until Roy gets here because of course Roy was gonna get here. Roy was going to pull him out of here, lecture John about trunks and heat (although, Roy, it wasn't his fault) and then hustle him into the squad. Man, he sure missed his squad. He sure wished he finished that glass of ice water left perspiring on the kitchen table when the tones rang. John bit his lower lip. He fought to keep his breathing steady but something was sitting on his chest, growing heavier and heavier.

John's fingers curled as the band around his chest tightened. He was startled to feel paper crinkling in his fists. What the—oh yeah. John drew up the citation sheets he had clawed out of the book he hid in the trunk. He needed to get them out. He saw the sheets with his smudged handwriting. Fuzzily, John thought it should bother him that he couldn't remember when he had written 'Frog 1G9' on them or what the heck that meant.

_Didn't matter._ A tiny voice inside him told him to get them through the tiny hole by his face and to keep breathing.

The paper was rolled up into a wrinkly twig. John kept missing the hole, like how he would constantly miss the thread through the needle's eyehole so he barely got any of his buttons patched so Roy used to take them and his wife Joanna sewed them back on. Roy always claimed he grabbed John's shirts by mistake but John knew enough to send Joanna a big box of her favorite chocolates every other month. Hopefully, Joanna could sew back on his paramedic pins he had torn off to slip under Jake's blankets. No, pins don't need sewing, they—

Wait.

John's legs kicked the back of the trunk in a twitch he couldn't control, but it at least jarred his memory. Oh. John squinted blearily at the paper in his hands. His hands shook as he tried to thread the paper twist through the hole. He panicked briefly when it stuck and there was a brief flash of fear that it was blocking out his air. Focus, Gage, focus.

It took a few tries but John was able to push the note out and his insides unclenched when the opening cleared and the odd tasting air sluggishly blew at his face again.

John rested against the sticky trunk wall and breathed out slowly. He could feel tremors going up and down his back and his leg twitched again. _Spasm_, John thought absently. Next would be cramps. Rigidity. Vomiting.

No, not good at all.

* * *

_"LA, Engine 8 available."_

_"10-4, Engine 8."_

_"…notify Battalion 126…"_

_"126 on scene." _

The sizzle of water instantly boiling the moment it touched the blaze was loud, but not loud enough that Hank didn't hear LA's requests rattling through on their radio in their engine parked reassuringly behind him like a retaining wall.

_"LA, Ladder 45. Cancel requested engines. Fire contained."_

_"Ladder 45."_

_"…37. Squad 37. Unknown type rescue. 2255 Beaker Avenue. Two two five five Beaker. Cross streets Wilford and Main. Time out…"_

_"Squad 18. Possible cardiac in 41-17 Grove Lane. Carson's Salvage. Cross streets Grove and Dame…"_

Hank glanced up at the Wilshire hotel which just moments before was fully involved and easily went from two alarms to four in a matter of minutes. Ladder 24's cherry picker was finally descending, sluggishly as if it didn't believe the fire was truly contained. The structure still smoldered resentfully, plumes of white and charcoal black smoke puffed up against the horizon. The white smoke, at least, was reassuring. Black meant the fire was still hungry.

_"Squad 51 is five minutes away. Will respond."_

Wait a minute…

"What the heck?" Hank muttered as he thumbed up the brim of his helmet to consider his radio with a mild frown.

No. Roy was back in Rampart, waiting for Sanchez of 37 to get off his shift and pull overtime as Roy's partner.

_Temporary partner_, Hank reminded himself as something flared up in his chest in response. He did not envy poor Sanchez. He was a good paramedic and what was happening with Gage was not his fault. No, DeSoto's a good fireman, by the book. Surely he wasn't impulsive enough to be out there without Sanchez because that would mean he was out there looking for Gage when HQ specifically told him _not_ to. No, Roy would listen to orders. He was levelheaded, calm, collected—

And John's partner.

"Ah hell," Hank groaned before yanking up his HT, "22, take over the scene."

_"10-4, 51. All units, be advised 22 is now handling the scene. South side, ventilate the…"_

Muttering under his breath, Hank spun completely around to glower at the radio up in Big Red's cabin. Like it or not, it _was_ DeSoto's voice when he answered the call to LA. Hank heaved himself up into the cabin, wiggling to reach past a surprised Stoker to grab the radio mouthpiece.

"Cap?"

"Did you catch the address?" Hank demanded as he activated the radio.

"Address? What address?" Lopez asked outside, puzzled to find their captain in the engine instead of tracking the extinguished building smoking feet away.

_"Squad 51."_

Too late, LA approved the change in assignments before Hank could radio that fool DeSoto.

"_Damn_!" Hank thundered, inches from Stoker and loud enough that the engineer stumbled out of the cab with a yelp.

"Cap?" Kelly's eyes looked wider than usual on his soot-smudged face when he poked his head into the cab. "Everything okay?"

"It will be," Hank growled as he gripped the radio mouthpiece close to his mouth, "when I lockthat twit in his locker for the rest of his career!"

"Uh, okay, Cap," Kelly said hastily. He climbed back down with a quick jump.

"Chet, what did you do?"

"It wasn't me!"

Hank could hear his men gathering by the door, the smoky wet stench of their turnout gear making his nostrils flare. He only gave them a long enough look to silence them. He counted three sweat plastered heads (good) before he barked into the radio.

"LA, connect me to Rampart Hospital."

* * *

_Hyperthermia. _

_Increased body temperature due to thermo…thermo…thermo what?_

He knew what was happening to him.

He knew what _this_ was.

He also knew he just needed to hold on. Just a bit longer. The guys would be here. _Roy_ would be here. He knew it. He just needed to…needed to what?

John forced himself to breathe slowly; wouldn't do to drive himself into tachypnea although deep down, he knew that wasn't really in his control.

John swallowed.

Doug wasn't coming back.

_Think, John, think._

The taillight by his head was at an angle above his head; John didn't have enough room to pull back a fist to punch it out. At least he was able to kick the other one out.

Loosen clothing: checked. Well…sort of. John managed to pull out the ends of his shirt, but in the cramped, suffocating quarters, he couldn't wiggle out of his trousers. Then again, the thought of the guys finding him in his shorts wasn't appealing. Chet would never let him hear the end of it.

_Breathe slowly. Loosen clothing. Find ventilation. _

All John needed now was D5W and some Lactated ringers.

John wanted to laugh but it got stuck in his gummy mouth.

John smacked his lips.

Boy, he was thirsty.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title:** Run

**Author:** Yuma

**Summary:** A call that turned out not to be a call after all, but someone still needed help…

**Spoilers:** Set just after first season.

**Notes:** We saw on many episodes that Johnny Gage _really_ didn't like guns. I thought it might be fun to figure out why.

* * *

There was a moment Roy worried perhaps whoever was in Carson's Salvage had been watching them outside. When he jogged over with Vince with the gear to the rundown gates; one half of the lopsided iron wrought gate screeched open as soon as his boots had touched the curb.

A tall, broad shouldered man stood at the gap, his face shadowed, his mouth twisted in a way Roy could feel Vince tensing besides him when they simultaneously skidded to a halt. Roy caught a glimpse of what almost looked like lightning carved into the square jaw. _This must be the older brother Doug_, Roy thought. His gut knotted at the thought of Doug standing over his partner.

"Fast," was the only comment Doug offered, his blue eyes scanning both of them up and down. "You don't look like ambulance people."

"They're right behind us," Roy reassured him. "They're usually sent out with us after the 911 call is received. We're here to assess the condition and stabilize the situation before they arrive."

Doug's eyes narrowed. "Let me guess. Paramedics?" He grumbled darkly under his breath but stepped aside to let them through. "My brother's in that building there."

"What's wrong with your brother?" Vince asked and Roy winced.

"He's sick," Doug said curtly. He turned on his heels and led the way, offering nothing more.

Roy hurried his steps but Vince, perhaps forgetting he was supposed to be a fireman, wasn't deterred. Despite wearing the spare turnout gear over his uniform and lugging the IV box and defibrillator, Vince didn't sound out of breath in the afternoon heat. His long strides easily ate the distance between him and Doug.

"How long has he been sick? Did he see a doctor before? How long did you wait before calling 911?"

Roy grimaced when he sighted the building—if it could be called that—corrugated sheet metal gleaming under sunlight. Even a healthy person staying there would become sick.

"You ask a lot of questions for a fireman."

Roy froze at Doug's growl. He shot Vince a look. Vince merely nodded and pretended to struggle with the gear, easing back a step.

"Have to know the medical history before we can treat your brother," Vince said, making a point not to meet the man's eyes. Doug pursed his lips but said nothing more.

Roy pushed the door open. Doug didn't appear to be too convinced.

"Treat?" A pale-faced kid with stringy blonde hair twisted around from his position by the lone cot inside, his eyes hopeful. "So you can help him?"

Roy pasted a smile on his face with some effort. A part of him didn't think there was really a patient. He had hoped the moment he opened the door, Johnny would be there. "The sooner we could see your brother, the faster we can get him to help." He took a step towards the cot and the kid followed with scared eyes. "I'm Fireman Roy DeSoto and uh…this is Fireman Vince Howard. Were you the ones who called 911? What's your name, son?"

The boy's words tripped over each other as he wiggled away to let Roy crouch by the unconscious man. "Stephen C-carson. Doug thought we should wait, b-but the guy—"

"Stevie!" Doug snapped. Vince spun around and Roy was positive if the officer weren't holding onto his gear, he would have pulled out his gun.

"Stop jabbering. Don't distract the firemen from helping Jake," Doug grumbled. He yanked Stevie to his feet. Stevie stumbled before huddling next to the larger man.

"You can help him, right?" Doug asked reluctantly after a pleading look from Stevie.

Roy tapped the bell of his stethoscope and settled it over the thin chest he exposed with an efficient yank at the shirt. The wet rustling that echoed in his ears made the corners of his mouth tighten. He settled a hand over his patient's belly and checked his watch as he tallied the much too slow rise and falls. He glanced over atVance, who stared back with a furrowed brow. The police officer was looking like the properly somber paramedic but his dark eyes lacked the comprehension of what was before him.

"Why don't you radio Rampart and see what that ETA is for that ambulance?" Roy murmured slowly.

"Ambulance?" Stevie stammered. He stepped away from his brother's shadow and hovered by the foot of the cot. His hands twisted around something he pressed to his chest. "Then…he really has to go to the hospital? Jake said he didn't wanna go to the hospital."

Roy pumped the pressure cuff ball and read the numbers. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from frowning. "I'm afraid this is not an option. Your brother here…he's very sick." Roy looked up at the pale face. Stevie's lower lip trembled.

"We should have listened. We shoulda called sooner…he said if his heartbeat got real slow then—"

"Who's he?" Vince asked, his eyes on Roy. He opened each box. Roy hoped the two men behind Vince couldn't see the hesitation as fingers fumbled over every compartment until Roy's tiny cough signaled him to stop at the right thing.

"Jake," Doug cut in smoothly. "Our brother told Stevie here to watch out for stuff. He was a medic in the Marines."

"That where you got that IV and stethoscope, son?" Vince nodded towards what Stevie clutched in his hands.

Stevie started. He looked down at what he held and gulped. "J-jake was a medic. This is his stuff. From when he was in Vietnam. Jake taught me to…" Stevie blinked rapidly. "He told me how to use it. Listen to his heart and stuff. Just in case."

Roy bit his tongue as he concentrated on pressing down on the belly and its unnatural rigidness. He couldn't let him think about how new the stethoscope looked for one stuck in the jungle before.

Doug's shadow eclipsed his ailing brother's prone body when he stepped forward. "What are you doing?"

"Your brother was right," Roy told him quickly but it wasn't enough to tear the oldest brother away from staring at Vince as he grabbed the biophone. Luckily, no one saw Vince first reach into the turnout gear for his handie talkie. "It's a good thing you called 911."

"What is he doing?" Doug repeated.

"Doug," Stevie whimpered. "Jake said no hospitals, but—"

"I said what is he doing?"

Vince squared his jaw but took great care to hold up the red phone for show. Everyone visibly tensed when the biophone chirped, the connection made.

"Rampart Hospital, this is Squad 51," Vince said slowly, his eyes on Doug. "This is Fireman Vince Howard."

Doug eased back but Roy's throat caught at the pause before the biophone finally crackled back.

_"We read you, 51. This is Doctor Brackett. What do you have, Vince?"_

Roy was pretty sure if he checked himself right now, he was probably diaphoretic; he could feel the back of his shirt starting to cling to his back. Roy swallowed and rattled off the vitals. Vince proved to be a quick learner; he remembered exactly what Roy had instructed him by the squad. He repeated everything back to Rampart.

The IV lines were established, tiny old syringe marks on blue lined arms were ignored. Roy kept one ear out to hear; what, he wasn't sure. Doug and Stevie weren't talking. Jake was definitely in no condition to carry on a conversation and the one voice Roy needed to hear was painfully absent. Where was Johnny? Roy was pretty sure now why his partner was brought here. And judging by the shadow Doug made over him and his patient, Johnny couldn't have risked escape either. Even if there was a chance, John was a paramedic before he was anything else. Roy knew his partner would save his patient before he would save himself. John Gage would _never_ walk away from someone who needed help: especially not in Jake's current condition.

"Ambulance will be here in eleven minutes," Vince reported and it wasn't an ideal ETA and Doug caught the frown before Roy could hide it.

"That bad?" Doug's shadow seemed to have deflated before them. Stevie's head whipped up at his older brother.

"D-doug?"

"Quiet." Eyes zeroed in on Roy's face in silent challenge, daring him to lie.

"If we get him to a hospital fast," Roy said carefully, "There's a chance." He readjusted the breathing mask over Jake. An esophageal would have been better, but a quick check had revealed to Roy a mouth far too raw from repeated vomiting to endure the life-saving intrusion.

"A drug overdose is very damaging," Roy said, unable to stop himself when he thought of the numerous old track marks. What a waste. "If you had waited to call 911—"

"Who said it was a drug overdose?" Doug darkened and he tugged Stevie closer to his side by the sleeve.

Vince wordlessly turned one thin arm towards the pair. "What was he into?" Vince asked, in a calm voice Roy envied. "Heroin?"

"We can't help him until we know what's killing him inside," Roy told the pair of closed faces. "Your brother could die."

Stevie's blotchy face blanched further and he opened his mouth but at Doug's tug on his arm, shut his mouth again with a snap.

"You called 911," Roy directed it to Stevie now. "You must have had some idea your brother was getting worse."

The young, scared face finally crumbled. Stevie jerked away from his older brother.

"Heroin! It was h-heroin! But he was trying to quit! Honest! Jake told us how to help him and we got the stuff he needed. I thought it was enough…but the guy said it would kill Jake but Jake said—"

"What stuff?" Vince asked before Roy could.

Stevie eyed Doug, who gaped at his little brother, maybe too shocked at the outburst. When Doug did nothing, Stevie wiped his dribbling nose with the back of his sleeve, and then nodded to something under the cot.

At Vince's nod, Roy peeled his eyes away from the two brothers and crouched lower to look under the cot. He vaguely made out small shapes, but it was too shadowed to identify anything. Roy hurriedly reached in and grabbed the shapes with one swoop, his other hand whipping out to catch something that tumbled out of his too full grip. He sat up and opened that hand to stare at the lone and empty bottle of morphine sulfate.

Oh God.

"When did you give him this?" Roy whispered. The vial felt cool in his palm. He could see the faint imprints of a hospital stamp on them. All he could make out was the 'R' and 'A' on the MS vial but it was enough. His mouth went dry. He could barely get the words out.

"When did you give him this? How much?" Roy's chest clenched. There was no way Johnny would have administered this. No. Not MS.

"Forty minutes ago," Stevie whispered.

"Shut up," Doug hissed, recovering from his initial shock.

"How much?" Roy asked sharply as he squeezed the lone bottle. His other hand twinged painfully around the items it still grasped tight against his hip.

"All of it." Stevie burst into tears. "It's true what he said then? Jake _wanted_ to die?"

Roy wasn't paying attention to the rest of what Stevie was blubbering about as he lunged across the cot for the biophone. He tossed everything from both his hands onto the cot, snatched the phone, barking for Rampart even as Vince questioned Stevie where the MS came from. Stevie was sobbing too hard to answer.

"We bought it," Doug answered, his words forced out between a snarl.

"Rampart, we have further information on the patient," Roy was speaking into the phone.

"From who?" Vince pressed.

_"Go ahead, 51."_

"I don't know who!" Doug snapped. "Some dude on the street!"

"Which street?"

"I don't know! Walker!"

"East or West?"

Roy was nodding at what Brackett was telling him. He adjusted the IV drip, his eyes darting to Jake's stricken face. He set his hand on Jake's belly again. Comparing it with what he got with the respiration number before, Roy's mouth pressed together.

_"51. LA reports ambulance ETA is now six minutes_," the biophone garbled out.

Roy set his jaw. He darted a glance over to Doug, glowering at Vince. The two men stood eye to eye. Stevie was sitting on the edge of the cot now, shoulders shaking, his head in his hands.

"The guy you got this from?" Roy asked tersely as he looked around the room again, his throat tight. "What does he look like?"

"Why are you asking all these questions?" Doug growled. "You should be saving our brother!"

"Look man, we need to know where these drugs came from—"

"I don't know!"

Roy swallowed. His eyes burned but he couldn't ignore Jake Carson's need either. Already, Jake's lower extremities were hardening into knotted spasms, legs twitching under the threadbare blanket. The bottles Roy grabbed with his other hand clinked under the tremors but they were also making another sound.

Something silver glinted dully among the empty vials Roy had blindly thrown down between the covered legs before. Roy reached for it, curled shaking fingers over the smooth, tiny piece of metal and drew it close enough to see the small caduceus.

"Vince," Roy choked out and he raised the pin up to Vince. "It's Joh—"

"Watch out!"

"Doug, no!"

There was no time to react or even see what was happening. Roy saw Vince leap over the cot, tackling him to the ground just as a sharp _ping_ zipped over them and one of the metal walls shook from the impact. Roy felt Vince push his head down behind the cot and he found himself staring at Jake's IV line as Vince yanked out his revolver.

"You're a cop!" Doug roared.

Roy grimaced as he heard a hammer cocked back. No room, Roy thought. They were too close to miss…

"Doug, stop!"

"Get out of my way!"

"You can't do this! This has gone too—"

"Come on," Vince ordered, grabbing the back of Roy's turnout coat and heaved him to his feet. He jerked Roy towards the door when Roy turned towards Jake. He caught a glimpse of Stevie tugging Doug's arm, his gun wildly seesawing in the air. But Vince gave him another shove out the door and Roy found himself stumbling besides Vince.

There was another shot—Stevie probably couldn't hold his brother off—as soon as the door slammed shut. Roy felt it spit by his shoe, close enough to make him trip but Vince's meaty grip on the back of his turnout coat righted him.

Old drills from his service in the Army taught him to keep his head low, his path across the yard a zig zag. They twisted around one pile of smashed cars, ducked under another stack (Code 387 dictates they should be—_oh shut up, Roy_) and somewhere between going around the compactor and a pillar of crushed bikes, they discarded their turnout gear.

Vince, armed with his own training and his gun, was right behind him as they ran. The officer alternated from hissing to Roy to keep moving and returning fire. Doug stayed doggedly behind them until suddenly, he wasn't.

Roy skidded around a pile of smashed up cars and barrels of half emptied acetylates. He crouched, sheltered under its shadow. Vince nearly collided into him, sliding in the dust.

"Those should be upright," Roy mumbled as he noticed the barrels they were hiding behind. Vince only huffed in response. Roy raised his head cautiously. He could see the shed meters away.

A _ping_ screeched past his ear and buried itself in the metal behind him.

Vince gave him a rough push until Roy was crouched down again, his chin nearly hitting his knees. "Stay down!" he ordered.

"But—"

"Damn it, Roy, will you just listen to me _this_ time!"

Roy shot a scowl at him. "Jake Carson needs help." He opened the fist he had held close to his hip to reveal the pin he never let go of. "And Johnny's out there somewhere. They know where he is."

"Do you also need a hole in your head?" Vince countered. He checked his revolver with a flick of his wrist. Vince swore.

"What?" Roy watched Vince dig a reload out of his pockets, sliding a chamber of bullets into his gun with a somber _click_.

"No more bullets left," Vince reported shortly. He raised his head to look to his left. Another _ping_ had him ducking fast.

"Maybe you should stay down," Roy suggested.

The glower Vince gave him told Roy what the officer thought of his advice.

Vince nodded towards their left.

"You see those barrels over there? The ones over—keep your head down!" Vince glared at Roy. "The gates are past that. Get to those barrels and then to the entrance and your squad."

Roy stared.

Vince, not understanding, gripped his gun firmly. "Don't worry. I'll draw his fire. It should give you enough time to—"

"I'm not leaving you here!" Roy burst out. "Or my patient. _Or_ my partner!"

"We don't know if John's even—"

Roy slapped the pin against Vince's chest. "That's an LA County paramedic pin. _John's_ pin. He's here."

Vince pressed it back into Roy's hand. "Fine. You're still going back to the squad."

"Vince—"

"Unless you have another biophone or a radio with you 'cause last I checked, everything is back there, I need you to get to the squad. Get some patrol cars here."

Roy paused. He squeezed a fist around the pin.

Two _pings_ punctured the headlights of a wreck in front of them.

"You want Jake's ambulance to come into this? We're going to find your _partner_ with this heat? We need backup!"

Roy swallowed. He pocketed John's pin and eyed the distant barrels. They seemed to stretch further away.

"Count of three?" Roy asked evenly.

Vince clapped him on the shoulder. "One…"

Roy took a deep breath, his shoulders rounding into a hunch. He could feel his gut clench.

"Two…"

_To the barrels, duck behind that jeep and to the gate…_

"Three!"

Vince's first return fire was the starter's gun. Roy bolted, head low, his arms close to his sides to be as small **as** a target as possible. There was a shout, a line of heat that brushed by him but then Vince returned fire in a quick one-two succession that left him ignored. Roy stumbled into the barrels' shadow. He made a face at the smell (they weren't properly sealed) and he studied the space he just fled.

Why was it quiet now?

Roy panted quietly, his legs burned as if he had climbed ten stories in full turnout gear. Sweat plastered his shirt to his back, his sleeves stuck into his armpits but all Roy could think was that it was probably twice as hot in the shed.

The stretch between the barrels and the jeep was as wide as the San Diego freeway. Nothing else stood between them. Roy bit his lower lip. He checked over his shoulder. The stacks and stacks of wreckage loomed, curtaining everything in shadow despite the afternoon sun creeping up to its zenith.

"Carson!" Vince abruptly hollered. "Give it up! You don't want to do this! Let us save your brother! The longer we're out here, the longer it will take before Jake will get help!"

"Shut up!" A couple of bullets barked back towards Vince.

Roy twitched. He didn't look back. He didn't dare. Roy just _ran_. He fixed on the crumpled jeep, poured on an extra burst of speed as he crossed the empty clearing. _Get to the squad, get to the squad. _Vince's words echoed in his head as his feet pounded across the distance.

Doug Carson stepped out from behind the jeep.

Roy's boots burned as he skidded to an abrupt halt, his body twisting vainly away as he saw Doug raise his gun arm. Roy threw himself to the ground just as he caught sight of Vince racing towards them, shouting but Roy couldn't hear past Joanne's crying out his name in his ears to hear what Vince was saying. The gun fired. Roy tensed.

Engine 51 roared as it shattered the gates, thundered in and stood between Roy and the gun.

"Geez!" Chet yelped as the bullet meant for Roy smashed into the side of Big Red. "He has a gun!"

"Hey!" Stoker bellowed in an outrage Roy hadn't heard from him before.

"Everybody out! Other side!" Cap could be heard shoving Mario and Chet out the doors. The two firemen tumbled out to land by Roy. "You too, Mike!"

"He shot her! Cap, he shot my—"

"_Out_, you twit!"

"Carson!" Vince veered sharply away from Roy and towards the older brother. Roy pushed himself up shakily on one elbow and squinted blearily at the dark uniform going farther and farther away.

Hands ran over his back, slipped under his arms to lift him off the dusty ground. Roy sat, cross-legged, his hands gripping his knees. He fought the urge not to hyperventilate. And to think Joanne was worried about him burning in a fire.

"Hey, you okay there, pal?"

"He all right, Cap?"

"I can't believe he shot my engine…"

"Aw, Mike. She'll live…"

Roy blinked and looked up at four grimy faces that filled his vision. The corner of his mouth tugged. Somehow, it was comforting to have the acrid odor of wet wood and smoke filling his nostrils.

"H-hi," Roy wheezed.

Cap scowled. He hauled Roy up to his feet. He whistled to something behind the engine and Squad 18 rolled into view.

Roy stared stupidly at the three paramedics climbing out of the squad. "How…?"

"Called Rampart and heard Sanchez was there twiddling his thumbs." Cap folded his arms across his chest. Roy gulped at the hard glare directed at him. "_Apparently_, his overtime left without him so he hitched a ride with Squad 18, seeing LA reassigned them to this call." Cap had the look of a summer storm on his face.

Oh. Roy offered Cap and the others a shaky smile.

"Roy, of all the crazy ideas you two get, this has to be—"

Roy pulled out the pin. Cap's tirade petered out.

"They have him." Roy dropped the pin into his captain's hand.

Cap looked down at the tiny metal in his hand. He sighed and wiped a palm down his face. His dark eyes lifted and met Roy's.

"Let's go find our boy."


	8. Chapter 8

**Title:** Run

**Author:** Yuma

**Summary:** A call that turned out not to be a call after all, but someone still needed help…

**Spoilers:** Set just after first season.

**Notes:** We saw on many episodes that Johnny Gage _really_ didn't like guns. I thought it might be fun to figure out why.

* * *

"I don't know," Stevie hiccupped, his eyes glued to Squad 18 transferring Jake into the stretcher. "Doug…he took him outside and…and then he came back alone."

Roy's insides churned. He heard Marco mutter something in Spanish. Roy's hands were automatic as he adjusted Jake's drip, checked the leads and trailed alongside the stretcher into the newly arrived ambulance. Stevie looked dazed at the sight of patrol cars and fire trucks huddled in the only available clearing.

"Did you hear a gunshot?" Vince asked Stevie. He had come back empty-handed minutes before; he lost Doug to the yard's metal labyrinth.

Roy felt cold. He stared at Stevie. Even the head shake Stevie made didn't undo the knot in his chest.

"We're ready," Sanchez reported as he climbed into the back of the ambulance. No one insisted Roy should be the one in there.

Wet eyes turned towards Vince.

"Please," Stevie whispered. "I gotta go with Jake. I promise I won't do nothing."

Vince studied Stevie for a moment, lips pursed before he slowly nodded. "Adams," he called out to one of the officers who had arrived minutes before. "Take the Carson kid with you to Rampart?"

"You got it, Vince."

The teenager grasped Roy by the wrists before Vince could warn against it. Handcuffs clacked as he gave Roy's hands a shake.

"He tried to tell me. The other fireman guy. He told me to call if Jake got worse. He tried to warn me but I didn't believe him. He made Doug so mad when he wouldn't give Jake the drugs but Jake made Doug promise not to kill him."

Roy nodded numbly.

Stevie's face was wet, his voice trembling. "I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I really don't know where he is. Doug knew but he's…" Stevie choked. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Come on," Vince said. He gently pried Stevie's hands off Roy. "You follow that officer. He'll take you to Rampart in a few minutes."

The young man's apologies trailed behind him as he was guided to a patrol car.

Roy sat on the step of their engine. He felt numb, his mind blank. He cupped the pin with both hands.

"We got men searching the premises for the b—for John," Vince told Cap in a quiet voice.

"We can search too," Marco declared.

"Sorry. Can't. Carson might still be out there. This place is a maze."

"Cap—" Mike protested.

"Vince, my men could stay together and search one area and your guys the other. We'll cover more ground."

"Sorry, Captain, but—"

"Hey," Chet said suddenly. "Ain't these like those things this morning?" The fireman rose from his crouch to lift up two fistfuls of paper.

Roy lifted a heavy head and frowned. He levered off the step, shrugging away the concerned looks thrown his way. He took one from Chet and smoothed out the wrinkled slip.

Frog 1G9.

"Kelly, did you have these in your pocket?"

"Those are evidence," Vince pointed out, his voice disapproving.

"I gave every sheet to that Detective Richards when we found them. These were under the engine."

Roy fingered the sheet and studied the smudged scrawl. The lettering was crooked, running into each other. He stared out into the yard, at the piles of flattened cars reaching up towards the sky.

Roy's eyes widened.

"I'm so stupid," Roy whispered.

"Roy?" Chet called out as Roy pivoted on his heel and raced to the patrol car pulling out. He shouted, slapping his palms on the driver side window until the vehicle slowed to a stop. Adams rolled down his window, his freckled face puzzled.

"Let me talk to him," Roy said urgently, his head jerking back towards Stevie in the back.

The teen gaped wide-eyed as Roy ripped open the passenger door and stuck his head in.

"Was it the car?"

"W-what?"

Roy waved the paper at the boy. Stevie flinched.

"There was a car parked on 316 when we got there. A green—_something_. I thought it looked like a rusty—The car. Did you take my partner here with that car? A green car?"

"Y-yeah, it was J-jake's—"

Roy didn't wait for Stevie to finish. He slammed the patrol car shut, shouted an apology over his shoulder to Adams as he ran back to Cap.

"The car!" Roy gestured with the slip. "They took Johnny here in their brother's car. _This_ car." He pointed to the lettering. "'Frog 1G9'. It's a partial plate. It's a green Cadillac, maybe a Buick. It wasn't parked outside—"

"So it must be in here," Vince finished. He spun around, his radio to his mouth. "All units…"

Roy sagged back into the engine. He smiled weakly at Cap as the older man dropped a hand to his shoulder.

"I should have realized sooner." Roy clutched tighter to the citation sheet.

"We at least know where to look now," Cap answered quietly.

Roy looked at his fist, at the paper. The tightness around him didn't lessen.

"Cap," Roy said softly. "He's in that car. I know he is."

"Then we'll find him."

* * *

"You people are crazy," Vince grumbled to Hank.

Hank silently agreed but he said nothing as his men lined up in search and rescue formation. This wasn't a wooded area like Arrowhead but the mountains of improperly stacked cars were sure to be just as daunting.

Vince only agreed to let 51 search for their lost comrade, provided he came along. Mindful of the lone brother still out there, his men agreed and even armed themselves.

Kelly chose a crowbar. He hefted it in his hands like a baseball bat. He stalked DeSoto (the idiot chose an _armboard_ as his weapon. Forget locking him in his locker. He was chaining him to the squad. _Both _of them.), even making a point on stepping on DeSoto's shadow. Apparently, Kelly didn't think an armboard was a weapon either.

Lopez decided a hammer _and _a wrench could hold up against a gun. Except he kept them in his back pocket because he wanted both hands free to brush over every wreck he could reach, as if the twisted metal would give up its secrets.

Stoker had wanted to charge a line and carry that with him until Hank pointed out that no matter how mad he was about Big Red, it wouldn't justify to HQ blasting Doug Carson with 800 PSI of water. It would probably kill the guy. Besides, it wasn't practical to be hauling around that much feet of hose in a yard this vast. To Hank's consternation, Stoker didn't immediately concur. He reluctantly chose the pole cutter instead, which was promptly left tucked under Stoker's arm as the engineer peered into each green vehicle he could find.

Hank chose the ax.

By God, he was leaving this wretched place with _all_ his men.

Everyone checked each car for the right color. DeSoto was in the lead despite Vince's protests, the crumpled citation held tight in his hand like it was a map to El Dorado.

Vince's radio crackled with negatives as one by one, officers reported in. Hank watched as the shoulders of his men slumped then straightened out almost immediately after.

"Cap. There's a green car in the compactor," Kelly whispered. He pointed to something to their right.

DeSoto's head whipped around.

"Doesn't work," Vince said hastily. "From what that Carson kid told me, nothing in this place has worked this past year."

"Car's all rusted in there," Stoker reported. "That's been in there for ages."

DeSoto turned back as if he'd never looked in the first place but Hank caught him giving the compactor another glance when they drew closer. Kelly stole a peek. Even Hank couldn't help himself to crane his neck a little to reassure himself it was indeed empty as they walked past.

"There!" Lopez's sharp eyes once again proved his worth when he pointed to something in the distance.

DeSoto squinted.

And broke out into a run.

"Roy!" Vince warned. He shot Hank an exasperated look before he ran after Roy, his gun loosely gripped with both hands.

"Johnny?" DeSoto had already checked the front of the car by the time they reached him. He was now bent over the trunk, knocking at the lid. He jerked his hands back with a hiss.

"Cap." Lopez raised a mangled twist of familiar paper. "This was jammed into a hole by the keyhole."

Hank dropped to his knees and peered into the opening where there used to be a taillight. He could make out a shape, black, strings, leather—a boot!

"I think I see him!" Hank rapped on the trunk. Damn. DeSoto was right. The metal surface scalded his knuckles. "John? We're out here with you! Hang in there, buddy."

"Key's broken in the lock," Lopez reported.

"Cap, can you reach inside?" DeSoto asked as he stepped back. "Chet, I need your crowbar."

"We'll get your equipment," Stoker declared. He and Lopez jogged back the way they came.

"Vince," DeSoto said breathlessly as he dug one curled end into the lip of the trunk. Kelly leaned his weight on the bar with DeSoto. "I need the biophone that's back in the shed. See if they have any ice or cold water. _Anything_."

Vince nodded, already turning around. He ran, talking into his radio as he took off.

"Cap?" DeSoto gasped. "Chet, once more…Heave!"

Hank carefully snaked his hand into the gap and gingerly felt the leg there. He felt a twitch.

"Roy," Hank said carefully as he pulled his hand out. He didn't even grimace as the jagged edges of plastic scratched across his knuckles. "Feels like he's having spasms." God damn it all.

DeSoto's eyes narrowed, his mouth set to a grim line. Hank scrambled to his feet and threw in his weight into the bar.

"Together," Hank ordered. "One. Two. _Heave_!"

With a groan, the lock wiggled out of its hole, the trunk lip curled in, forming an 'O' before one more vicious upward jerk popped the lid open with such force, they all staggered back. By some miracle, DeSoto held onto the pry bar. But as soon as the paramedic righted himself, he threw the bar away and scrambled to the trunk.

Feet frozen to the dirt, Hank found he couldn't come closer. Kelly seemed to have the same problem but he found the ability to speak.

"Roy? Is Johnny…"

DeSoto's shoulders shook as he leaned into the opened trunk. Hank couldn't see his face with his head bowed. There was a cold lump in the pit of his stomach when the paramedic didn't immediately answer.

"Roy?" Hank spoke up when the wait became too much of a knife digging into his ribs.

There was a full body shudder before DeSoto straightened a little, his arms still deep in the trunk.

"Chet," DeSoto's voice was deceptively calm. "I need your help. I don't feel anything broken so I think it's safe to pull him out. Grab his legs. We gotta cool him down."

Hank wanted to whoop, his face stretching from the broad smile on his face. It faded, however, when Gage was lifted out of the trunk. His face was flushed far too red without a fire to blame, hair plastered to his skull giving him an almost depleted look.

"Is he all right?" It wasn't clear if Lopez or Stoker asked when they returned.

"He will be," DeSoto said tightly. "Get his boots off. I need the burn kit. And all the saline you can carry."

"I got his boots," Hank offered as Lopez and Stoker took off again for the squad. Thank God they decided to bring it into the yard.

DeSoto never acknowledged Hank. He sat behind Gage, propping the younger man up against his chest. He was murmuring into his partner's ear while he stripped the sweat soaked blue uniform shirt off Gage. DeSoto was careful, but his actions still held an air of urgency as he tore the shirt open, scattering buttons in its wake. It was disturbing to see Gage so complacent, being moved around, limbs flopping like those rescue dummies they used for drills. He trembled every so often like he was cold.

Hank busied himself undoing the laces on the boots, grunting when Vince, then Lopez and Stoker returned with everything their arms could carry.

"We got men spread around us. Carson's not going to be able to ambush us," Vince announced. He dropped to one knee and opened up the biophone box. "Rampart, Squad 51."

That's right. Hank'd forgotten about Doug Carson.

Gage was set on the yellow burn blanket on the ground. It was wrapped loosely around him as Kelly poured saline over the material. DeSoto was pointing out IV lines for Lopez and Stoker to grab. Vince was repeating everything Rampart and DeSoto was telling him. And Hank? All he could do was hold Gage's darn boots as the rest of his men took on every task DeSoto called out.

"What's the ETA on the ambulance?" DeSoto asked hurriedly as he pierced skin to set up the IV line. Hank grimaced. Somehow, it never looked as painful on other victims. DeSoto must have agreed because he rubbed one trembling bicep and muttered an apology into Gage's ear.

"Thirty minutes."

"_What_?" DeSoto's head shot up.

Vince looked like he wanted to take Hank's ax to the biophone. His mustache wiggled into a decidedly downward tilt. "That last ambulance was the closest. Highway, multiple car collision. Most of them were sent to it."

"Roy, can he wait that long?" Hank demanded but the wide-eyed, barely hidden panic on DeSoto's face already answered. Thirty to get here, thirty to reach Rampart. Hank's head spun.

Before DeSoto could say anything, Gage gave a violent jerk, legs kicking up, unraveling the burn blanket as they thrashed.

"No, no, no," DeSoto wrapped his arms around Gage's shoulders, his mouth a hair's breadth from Gage's ear. "Come on, come on," DeSoto chanted, "Don't do this. Sh, it's okay. We got you. No, no, no. Come on, partner."

"Cap."

Hank could hear DeSoto asking Rampart what to do. He hoped they knew because other than a prayer, Hank was at a loss. He lifted gritty eyes to a grim-faced Kelly.

"I can get them there in twenty."

"Go," Hank barked. He snatched the biophone even as everyone grabbed a bit of the burn blanket to carry Gage to the squad.

"Rampart. Squad 51 will be transporting the patient themselves. ETA twenty minutes."

_"10-4, 51." _


	9. Chapter 9

**Title:** Run

**Author ****Notes:** We're drawing to a close! One more chapter after this! Thank you all for the reviews! I haven't been able to reply to them yet (but that's my fault, not yours). I've been floored by the responses. I've certainly been having fun revisiting this fandom. There are more on the works. A tad longer for some so I may be quiet for a while. But rereading the reviews over and over has and WILL sustain me. :)

* * *

"Well?" Dix asked as soon as she reached the rescue station. A panicking mother-to-be in Two had drawn her away. By the time she returned, Kel was talking to Nancy about an ice bath.

"Thirty minutes," Kel said evenly.

"_Thirty _minutes?" Dix stared at Kel in dismay.

"And that doesn't include getting Johnny back here." Kel clicked his pen shut and stared at the pen in his hand. He looked sorely tempted to throw it. "They're too far away."

"Harbor?" Dix managed.

"Even farther." Kel's brow furrowed. "He's seized already."

"Oh no. Isn't there—" Dix felt a light hand brush against her arm and she looked up to Joe's concerned face.

"They found him?" Joe guessed.

Dix could only nod as Kel explained about the ambulance.

"I already have Roy start Johnny on two IV lines but they couldn't find ice. Not even cool water in that dump."

Dix glanced over to Joe. She needed the doctor's usual optimism right now. "Thirty minutes there and back? Joe…"

"They've surprised us before," Joe replied without hesitation. He offered her a smile. "And Roy's not the type of paramedic who gives up so easily on his patients. And this is Johnny we're talking about here."

_"Rampart. Squad 51 will be transporting the patient themselves. ETA twenty minutes."_ Hank Stanley's terse voice crackled through.

"See?" Joe patted Dix on the arm. "Sounds like the rest of them don't give up that easy either."

Kel's small smile was reassuring to see as he punched the panel to speak into the radio.

"10-4, 51."

* * *

Spilled saline on the seats soaked into the seat of Chet's pants. But he didn't care. Not really. He tapped his hands on the steering wheel. He opened his mouth, wanting to holler, "Come on, come on" because the ladies were taking their time. But then Roy shuffled into the passenger seat, tossed in the rest of the saline bottles next to Chet and held his arms out towards the open door in silent plea for the guys to hand John over.

Chet held back his tongue. His fingers wouldn't stop drumming on the wheel though.

"Easy, watch his knees. Marco, hang the IV bags—yeah, over there. That's good."

Cap popped up by the driver's window. Chet jumped.

"Vince is going ahead to clear any traffic," Cap barked but Chet knew he wasn't really yelling at him. It was just that shouting made you feel like something was being done.

"Full sirens. Don't worry about leaving us behind. Engine's not going to be able to keep up." Cap rapped the door. "Get there in one piece, Kelly."

"You got it, Cap!" Chet promised.

"We're ready," Roy said as he pulled John in. With Chet's help, they settled John between them. John sagged and slumped against Roy, limp and breathing harshly between them.

"Go, Chet!" Marco hollered as he slammed the door shut.

Vince's patrol car suddenly wailed, red and blue sirens spinning in front of him.

Chet stomped his foot on the gas and chased after Vince like one of those skinny racing greyhounds running after a rabbit.

"LA, Squad 51. Notify Rampart we are on route. ETA twenty minutes," Roy shouted to be heard above the squad's own sirens as he called up dispatch.

_"Squad 51,"_ LA acknowledged.

_Get out of the way, get out of the way_, Chet growled in his head as cars edged to the side of the road to first let Vince past then the squad.

"Can we get him to drink something?" Chet asked because even dodging idiotic drivers, miles rolling closer to Rampart, it still felt like they weren't doing enough.

Roy shook his head. "If he was conscious. He'll choke if I try to give him anything now." He drew John closer until the dark head lolled into his shoulder. "The IVs will hopefully replenish what he's lost. He had already loosened up his shirt when we found him. He must have prepared himself for the possibility that he was trapped." Roy audibly swallowed.

"The taillight on the left was kicked out, too," Chet remembered.

"He was trying to get some ventilation," Roy said. "It wasn't a lot but it might have been what saved his life."

"Don't worry." Chet shook a fist as they zipped past a sedan making an illegal U-turn. "You and Gage are the best paramedics in this county. Sounds to me he did everything possible to hang in there." Chet paused. His mouth twisted but he didn't dare look over.

"But don't tell him I said that."

Roy sputtered a laugh. "He wouldn't believe me if I tell him."

"Oh, he'll believe it all right, Roy. He would believe smoke tastes like licorice if you tell him."

Roy grunted. He fumbled for one of John's wrists, two fingers pressed against reddened, almost sunburned looking skin.

"How much farther?" Roy asked after a beat.

Chet flicked a glance to the overhead highway signs. "Thirteen minutes."

There was a long pause before Roy's voice came back hoarse, barely audible.

"Can you make it in ten?"

Chet slammed the heel of his hand on the horn to scatter the cars in front of him and sharply cut in front of a delivery van.

"You got it."

* * *

The saline soaked gauze felt too warm, woefully inadequate when Roy pressed it against the back of John's neck. If only they had found ice; even water cooler than lukewarm would have helped.

An ice bath waited for his partner in Rampart. A process Roy knew might not necessarily save John. If he didn't get the body temperature down low enough, the sudden shock of the abrupt temperature drop could kill him.

Roy curled a hand over John's forehead, bracing him as Chet made a turn that felt like it sent his heart slamming into the other side of his ribcage. Chet was truly trying to get to Rampart in ten.

As soon as the squad straightened, barreling down the path Vince made, Roy pressed two fingers on John's carotid again. He swallowed, eyes blurring as the beats under his touch thumped almost too fast to count. The rapid panting, gasping John made sounded like it was trying to catch up to his racing heartbeat.

Saline spilled sloppily over his lap as he drenched more gauze and slipped it under the undershirt to rest on Johnny's belly. Roy replaced the pads on John's throat, the top of his head, under his arms, over his groin. John was getting soaked, water dripping off the bangs messily plastered to his brow and the tip of his nose. But pneumonia was the least of Roy's problems. Despite the wipe downs, the skin still too hot, the heat felt even through his own shirt. It was hot enough to cook the damp gauze, that when he peeled them away, they came off warm.

Getting a BP was hard in the jostling squad. Chet was more concerned with speed than comfort yet Roy wasn't about to ask him to slow down. It took Roy two tries before he could wrap the cuff around the elbow, his stethoscope slipping off his ears each time the squad hopped over bumps. One was hard enough Chet had whipped out an arm across John's chest to combine with Roy's to stop John from slamming face first into the dashboard.

"Sorry," Chet muttered but he didn't let his foot off the gas pedal. He kept his arm over John until he needed both hands on the wheel to swerve away from a motorcycle that cut across in front of the squad.

Johnny's head rolled and lightly butted Roy's chin. Roy snaked an arm around John's middle to keep him from sagging down the seat. He sighed.

"And to think I was worried about you eating the chicken," Roy muttered into the soaked hair.

"What?" Chet pounded on the horn, honking it repeatedly at the blue convertible taking too long to change lanes.

Aloud, Roy said, "I was worried he was gonna get sick again from the chicken."

"Chicken?" Chet parroted. Eyes front, his face scrunched up. "What are you talking about?"

"I had to drag him away from the kitchen this morning." Roy squeezed a trembling shoulder in apology. "Last thing he needed was to get sick again like before."

"Before?"

"You know, last month? After Mike got his head stuck trying to grab that cat in the pipe? You and Johnny here decided a midnight snack was in order and ate the chicken. You two clowns were sick for the rest of the shift. You even missed the next shift."

"Last month?" Chet frowned for some reason. "Roy, that was _Mike's_ chicken. You can't get sick on Mike's chicken."

It was an odd echo. Roy checked his partner to see if maybe John had roused to defend Mike's fried chicken once again. But John remained slumped against him, his face still flushed with unnatural heat, mouth partially opened as he gasped. Roy closed his eyes briefly and dropped his chin on top of the damp head.

"I'm pretty sure it was the chicken," Roy argued half-heartedly.

"Nah. It was the meatloaf." Chet nodded to himself.

Roy darted him a look. "Meatloaf?"

"Yeah. Marco's sister was taking that home correspondence course on catering. Remember?" Chet grimaced in memory even as he gestured at the windshield, motioning drivers to get out of their way. "She had some dumb recipe for meatloaf but it wasn't really meat. It was turkey, of all things." Shaking his head, Chet snorted. "Who ever heard of using turkey for meatloaf? Anyway, she brought it over but no one would touch it. So we finished off that meatloaf." Pretending to gag, Chet spared Roy a look.

"I'm pretty sure it wasn't the chicken." Chet shook his head. "Turkey. What a crummy idea…"

Roy's face twisted and there was the strangest sensation to laugh even though he didn't find it funny. He drew John closer, fingers to the pulse. His eyes burned at what he found.

"Guess you were right," Roy murmured. He gave the rigid, spasming fingers a squeeze. "Sorry." Roy tried to clear his throat but the lump there wouldn't go away. "I'm really sorry, Johnny." His voice cracked.

Roy could see Chet past John's head, his jaw set, eyes resolutely fixed to the front, hands curling and uncurling on the steering wheel. Vince's lights were visiblein front of them. The highway was cleared out but the emptiness did nothing to ease the churning in Roy's stomach. If anything, it served only to fill his mouth with bile.

"How much further," Roy croaked. He kept one hand on John's stomach to count the respirations. "How much more?"

"Not much," Chet answered gruffly. "Almost there."

* * *

Johnny seized one more time.

The kick to his hip had him turning around to tell John to quit fooling around. But when he turned, he caught sight of Roy and Chet snapped his eyes back forward.

Roy was bent doubled over John, who was curled, his limbs gnarled and jerky within Roy's protective hold. Chet knew enough first aid to know that probably wasn't the right way to treat the convulsions but the squad gave them no room to do _anything_ rig—where did these drivers get their licenses?

The horn blared resentfully when Chet thumped on the steering wheel. Briefly, he wished for the engine and its bellowing horn, loud enough to carry, loud enough for everyone to know they needed to scatter.

"…easy…No, no, no, come on. Don't do this. Sh, sh, sh. Relax. You're gonna be okay. Johnny, _please_."

Chet blinked rapidly, trying to keep Vince's patrol car in focus. He squeezed the steering wheel. Where was it? He could have sworn they took the right off-ramp. Did…did they take the wrong exit?

Ice rushed down his arms and Chet's head swam like he inhaled too much smoke. He could feel his own chest heaving in time with the harsh sawing next to him. No one was kicking him anymore but he didn't feel good about that.

"We're here," Chet said needlessly when he sighted the tall sterile structure rising up into the horizon. "Roy, we're he—" He glanced over, his words dying at the pinched look on Roy's face. The paramedic had a death grip on John's wrist, knuckles white as if Roy was willing a pulse into the hand he held.

"Just get us there," Roy breathed out between his teeth. Chet numbly nodded.

There was a smokescreen over his memories. If Chet was to sit down later and really think about it, he would have realized the next few minutes were just a mess of images, like a window pane, shattered to ventilate an inferno. He remembered seeing the Receiving doors. He remembered Vince standing there, yanking open the squad door even before the squad completely stopped.

Saline spilled all over the well of the cab and sloshed under his boots. Roy had accidentally kicked the last remaining bottle when he slipped on the mess trying to carry John towards Vince and the stretcher. Roy snapped at Chet—he had never done that before—when Chet said he would help. Roy said something about no time, there was no time, damn it. Chet suddenly found himself alone in the cab, staring at Roy climbing onto the stretcher, straddling Johnny and starting CPR. The orderlies who waited by Receiving—he thought he saw both Dix and Brackett too—didn't bat an eye at Roy on the gurney. In fact, everyone seemed to move faster at the sight. In a burst of "Get the deliberator ready" and "We need that hallway cleared, Vince" and the sounds of hands slapping on doors, the whole crowd disappeared behind the doors. All that was left was the yellow burnblanket left as a wet slop on the ground, two candy strippers staring wide-eyed at the double doors and a squad parked with one wheel up the curb.

There was a knock on the driver's side window. Chet turned a heavy head towards it and rolled down the window so he could hear Cap.

"How is he?"

Chet opened his mouth then closed it. He looked down at the steering wheel and discovered he had sweated into the leather and now he couldn't seem to be able to pry his palms off.

"I…" Chet gulped. "I don't know."

* * *

The first contact of what felt like needles on his skin made him scream. He arched his back off the sling but hands everywhere held him down.

He thrashed; he realized he could move more.

Out. He needed to get out.

_Out!_

"Easy! Easy! John, you're okay! Calm down!"

The trunk was cooking; he could feel its heated air like an oil slick on his skin. He needed more air. He kicked and contacted metal that wouldn't give under the force. He writhed and felt metal walls blocking him.

"Doctor, heart rate is now—"

"John, you're fine! Take it ea—"

It felt like he struck something. Something heavy sounding fell. An arm locked around his head and he thought he could now feel the cool round muzzle of a gun pressed into his cheek.

"Get me another IV! Keep his head above—"

A beeping thrummed into a maddening endless stream of high-pitched squeals.

"Do we administer a sedative?"

"John, you're all right! You're—Get Roy back in here!"

He lashed out, heard a grunt and the vise around his head released. Suddenly, he found himself drowning.

He tried to open his eyes but they felt heavy. He could feel himself rocked from side to side by whatever it was that surrounded him. He felt cold. Yet he also felt hot. He couldn't understand.

And then…

He felt hands reaching from above, under his arms and lifted.

Air.

"Turn his head. Over here."

He coughed. Why did it hurt to cough? He could feel the cool, thin edge of whatever fenced him in, pressing into his ribs. He flailed and vomited, his head guided by that hand again, over a kidney shaped dish he could vaguely make out with burning eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut as his stomach roiled over and over.

When nothing more would come out, he felt himself rolled onto his back and he was…floating?

"What are you doing making such a fuss?" It was a voice that echoed of something he knew, a name just teasing the edge of his jumbled thoughts.

"Look at this mess." The gentle chide floated in and rearranged the inside of his head. A heavy hand settled over his heart. "Calm down before they make both of us mop this up."

He panted, too drained to move his limbs anymore. But he tried to lift a hand towards the voice.

Warmth and strength captured it, held it tight and anchored him.

"I'm right here, partner," the voice soothed. "You just gotta stay in the tub for a few more minutes. Okay? Try not to move around."

But he couldn't move before. The idea of staying frozen, trapped in a suffocating oven that shrank around him with each passing minute, shook his body. A sound in the back of his throat broke free.

A hand brushed back the bangs clinging to his forehead. "You're out. It's over. Just relax. It'll be finished soon and they'll take you out of there." The hand gripping his guided him to curl around the edge he felt before. "See? You're not locked in. Few more minutes and we'll get you out of it." A brief squeeze over his knuckles. "It's all right, Johnny."

A name finally formed. He felt like he was wrapped in cotton, his tearing eyes only able to comprehend the brightness around him, blurry faces and vaguely familiar machines looming over him like shiny monsters. But the hand clasped over his was as familiar as his own.

"'oy," he croaked.

The hand over his flinched, pausing before giving his hand another squeeze.

"I'm right here. Relax."

Coolness lapped under his chin. He squinted blearily up towards where he thinks Roy was. A hand rested on top of his head. Roy whispered something that was lost in the flurry of voices surrounded them. He nodded sleepily, just glad to no longer feel the cloak of heat crushing him.

He felt a prick into his arm and then he knew nothing more.

* * *

_Splintered metal coiled around him and squeezed out his air. As he gasped, the metal grew red hot and he began to burn…_

"It's okay! You're okay!"

John roused mid-cry, body slumped over the bed rail in an effort to break free of a coffin he could still feel around him. He clutched the thin rail with both hands and repeatedly told himself it wasn't a wall; it wasn't the inside interior of a trunk.

But…it was so _dark_.

Hands loosely wrapped around his shoulders eased him back down to the center of the bed. John wheezed, dizzy even though the other person did all the work. His limbs felt leaden, foreign to him as if someone had clipped sandbags to his lifebelt.

On his back, John was more acutely aware of how dark it was, how narrow the bed felt, how the air felt thick and sluggish in his lungs.

"'ould…" John rasped. "T-the 'ights…p'ease…" He flinched at the plea he could hear and wished he could add some funny comment after it. His throat felt scoured. He couldn't get the words out right.

There was a pat on his chest and a tiny light winked into existence from a lamp on a bland end table cluttered with pitchers and cups.

"Better?" Roy came into view. He smiled faintly at John, his eyes empty of reproach. He didn't wait for a response; only reached over to offer him a spoonful of ice chips.

Quiet crunching filled John's ears and he wondered why Roy was just looking at him, his expression unreadable. When John coughed though, he caught a flicker in Roy's eyes.

John cleared his throat. "Thanks for finding me," he croaked.

An odd sort of grimace flashed across Roy's face.

"'oy?"

Roy shook his head. "Nothing. Get some rest."

John swallowed and couldn't stop a shaky hand from curling around the bed rail. It wasn't a wall. It was just a bar. He could get out if he wanted to (sort of).

There was a scrape of chair legs over linoleum. John turned his head and blinked heavy lidded at Roy settling down in a chair by his head.

"Mind if I keep the light on for a bit?" Roy asked casually. He lifted up a _Life_ magazine. "Want to finish reading it."

"'ure," John said thickly. "'nteresting?"

Roy shrugged. He rolled the magazine up and lightly tapped John's head with it.

"Get some sleep, Junior. The guys want to come by tomorrow. Joanne, too."

John nodded, his eyes already sliding shut. The reddish hue behind his eyelids from the light soothed the churning in his stomach. He felt himself growing heavy, his fingers slipping off the cool rail. His heart thudded. No wall. Bedrail. No wall. Bed—

A hand wrapped over his fingers before they could complete drop off. Strong, it gave his fingers a careful squeeze, easing his hand back up to wrap around the bedrail.

With the sensation of open air around him, the railing frail and thin in his hand, the walls of his room retreated. John took a deep breath.

"Thanks," he murmured sleepily as he drifted.

The last thing he remembered was the tiny crinkle of a turning page in response. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Title:** Run

**Author ****Notes:** Everyone's been so supportive, so generous with their feedback. Thank you all for the reviews!

* * *

_One week later…_

"…so Vince said since Doug confessed to everything, I don't have to take the stand."

Roy grunted as he looked at his partner's chart. His mouth pursed at Dix's notation about nightmares.

"Uh…so I promised Joanne we would steal Big Red and give it to your kids for Christmas. I mean, Cap will be mad, sure, but heck, it's for Christmas. What do you think?"

"Fine," Roy muttered as he flipped idly to the next page of John's chart.

"_Roy_."

Roy glanced over to find his partner frowning.

"Should I get Brackett?" Roy gave him a critical once over. John didn't look sunburned anymore but his color now went to the other extreme. "Feeling okay?"

John scoffed. "I'm fine. I've _been_ fine for the past four days! Are _you_ feeling all right?"

"Me?" Baffled, Roy could only stare at him. "I'm fine." He wasn't the one left to die in a trunk. He wasn't shot at or left behind by his part—Roy cleared his throat.

"Roy, since you got here, I got you agreeing to rob the First Valley Bank, put skis on our squad and steal Big Red to leave under your Christmas tree for your kids!"

The only thing Roy could think of was, "Mike wouldn't like that."

John glowered at him but after a few moments, he sagged into the pillows.

"You still hung up on that?"

After days of watching his partner slip in and out of delirium, painful convulsions and a coma, everything was reduced to 'that'.

"It shouldn't have happened," Roy sighed.

"Geez, Roy, where you've been these days? 'Cause I think it did."

Roy glared at John before his shoulders slumped.

"I shouldn't have left you at the squad alone. I should have realized what the clues you were leaving behind meant." Roy swallowed hard. "We could have found you faster." He could avoid the sickening lurch his stomach felt when the weak pulse faded under his fingertips. He could have avoided being stuck with the memory of watching his own partner arching up under the defibrillator.

"Aw, Roy. Cap showed me those notes. Heck, I don't think even _I_ could understand what it meant."

The corners of his mouth tugged. "You always did have lousy handwriting."

"Hey, you try writing inside a moving vehicle." John gestured vaguely at Roy then himself. "If we're going to do this, _I_ should have insisted on coming with you. I should have been able to convince that kid not to do this. And…" John's Adam's apple worked. "I should have been able to convince Jake Carson not to kill himself." Sighing, John stared glumly at the tray of food he'd been ignoring since breakfast. He sniffed loudly.

"I tried everything I could think of, Roy. I tried to talk him out of it. But…"

"He was too far gone in his head, Johnny," Roy said quietly.

"We've talked loads of jumpers off ledges." John scowled at his feet.

Roy shook his head. Only his partner would find himself in fault in all this. "It's not the same. He was going through some heavy stuff on his own. He was desperate enough to lie to his own family so he could get them to help OD him." Roy heaved a sigh. He punched John gently on a blanketed knee.

"But you got Stevie Carson to call 911. _Him_, you got to."

It was heartening to see Johnny nod, a tentative smile slowly spreading on his face. "I guess I did, huh?"

"Yup."

* * *

John blinked at the timid knock on the door.

"The guys?" John asked hopefully. He wouldn't mind a visit, especially after Morton put him on bed rest. He had one little fall trying to go to the bathroom yesterday and now there was a wheelchair parked by his bed and hourly check-ins by Dix herself. And boy, Brackett sure was loud yelling at him all the while he was checking John's pupils with his penlight.

"Doubt it," Roy said cryptically. He didn't move from his seat on the edge of John's bed.

John struggled to sit up higher but Roy was right on top of his blanket.

"Where do you think you're going?" Roy asked in a mild voice. He folded his arms in front of him and considered John.

"I was gonna let whoever that is i—Roy, would you get off?" John dropped back into the pillows, winded, his head spinning. Shoot, maybe that _was _a bad idea.

Roy studied him for a long moment before he said in a calm voice. "Nope." He leaned into the bed some more, resting his elbow on the pullout table pulled over John's legs.

Another knock.

"At least go see who it is! I mean, we shouldn't—they're knocking! We shouldn't leave them standing there." John fidgeted, but Roy wouldn't budge. Darn Dix. She came by and tucked him completely into the bed. He felt like one of those enchiladas from the stand on Murray.

The lazy and knowing smirk Roy wore rankled. John glowered but it only made Roy's smirk widen. Part of John, though, was kind of glad to see it; Roy had been moping around when he dropped by every day.

Roy craned his neck to look over his shoulder but moved nothing else.

"Come in," Roy said out loud. He snickered when John growled under his breath.

John paused though when the door opened, revealing Vince. John exchanged a look with Roy.

"Hey, Vince," Roy greeted with a wave.

"Hey, guys. John, how're you feeling?" Vince stayed by the door.

"Fine." John tugged at his blankets, hoping Roy would take the hint. He didn't. "I'm just—_Roy_ cut it out—just fine, Vince."

"Have a seat, Vince!" Roy offered cheerfully. He made a show of gesturing towards one of the chairs.

"Uh, thanks. I can't stay long. Just wanted to see if John was up for a visitor."

"So long he doesn't have to _get_ up," Roy quipped.

"Roy!" John hissed. He yanked hard on the covers but it was like trying to pry a car out from under a truck without the jaws.

"_Okay_," Vince said slowly. He looked to his left and nodded.

John stilled when Stevie stepped into view. The teen looked a little different, younger now, his hair combed back, his clothing straightened and tucked in.

"Hi," Stevie said with a quaver. He rubbed a hand to the back of his neck. "I uh…I wanted to see how you were doing."

"Good. I'm doing great." John offered the boy a broad smile even though his stomach was still doing funny flip flops. Even though he knew Doug was in jail, John couldn't help expecting to see that bear coming out with that gun of his.

The Carson kid stumbled in a step after a nudge from Vince. Stevie rubbed his hands on his jeans.

"I uh…wanted to tell you. Jake's doing lots better. The doctors just got him off that list."

It was easier to smile now. "The critical list? That's great news."

Stevie looked at him wide-eyed. "Really?"

"Sure," Roy jumped in, "It means your brother is improving."

"No, no, I mean…" Stevie ducked his head. "I thought you would be sore at us; at Jake. After everything…um…"

"After everything _Doug_ did?" John cut in. He paused when Stevie flushed. "Vince told me Doug Carson turned himself in. Told the police it was all his doing: the robbery, the kidnapping, everything."

It made his belly go into knots when Stevie screwed up his face, looking like he was about to cry. Aw, man.

"Guess you're gonna have to take care of Jake while Doug's away," John added hastily.

Startled, Stevie stared at John.

"Your brother has a hard road ahead of him," Roy added. "He's gonna need your help."

John met Stevie's gaze, waiting. He relaxed when Stevie slowly nodded. John slumped into the pillows even deeper.

Roy patted John's knee, his eyes on him, dark with understanding.

"Stevie's going to stay with Mr. Dunning while Jake cleans up," Vince told them. He dropped a hand on Stevie's shoulder. "Jake's going to check into the VA hospital. Stevie here is thinking of asking Mr. Dunning to help them fix up that salvage yard of theirs. Get it back in business again."

"Mr. Dunning's been cooped up in his apartment since his kid didn't come back from the war." Stevie shrugged. He smiled shyly. "Figured maybe it'll keep him busy." Stevie paused. "He's all right for an old man."

"Well, all right," John cheered. The day was definitely looking up and once Roy got off his bed, the day would be even better.

"Thank you for what you did," Stevie whispered. He rocked from foot to foot. "You tried to warn me. I-I wished I listened earlier. I wished a whole bunch of stuff was done different."

"Sometimes things happen," John replied, sobering. He glanced over to Roy and gave him a poke on the leg. "Doesn't make it your fault."

Roy glanced over to John and smiled faintly. He nodded.

"And it all turned out good," Vince assured Stevie.

"Except for Doug," Stevie pointed out softly.

"Your brother turned himself in and confessed to everything," John said somberly. He swallowed and tried to ignore the sensation of that gun digging into the back of his neck. "He's your brother; probably thought he needed to do what he had to do."

"Yeah, but he…I mean, the car…he stuck you in that c—"

"I'm fine," John interrupted in a firm voice. "My friends got me out. I'm fine."

"He's going to be all right," Roy added. He nodded farewell as the two left.

"_Going_ to be?" John repeated archly once the door was shut

"The minute you can sit up without passing out, you're fine."

"I can sit up if you would just get off!"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means _someone_ here has been having too many helpings of Marco's chili."

Roy glowered at him, mouth opened to retort when there was another knock on the door.

"Come in," Roy called out. He pointedly ignored John's glower.

"Hey, guys!" John grinned broadly as Cap and the others filed in.

"How's it going there, pal?" Cap—even in civilian gear, it was hard not to think of him as 'Cap'—rapped the foot board. Cap frowned. He nodded towards the bandage on John's forehead.

"Now, wait a second. That looks new."

If Roy wasn't pinning him on the bed, John would slide deeper into his covers. "Well," John fumbled. "It was…I kinda…"

"Have a seat, Chet," Roy said loudly. He reached over and patted the other side of the bed with a grin.

Chet looked at Roy then at John, his eyes narrowing on John's forehead. He grunted, a thumb idly scratching his mustache before he sauntered over and dropped down on the edge of the bed.

There was a slight bounce and when John tried to wiggle up higher on the bed, he found he couldn't and no, it wasn't because his legs still felt like mush or his head felt like it was barely attached.

"Chet, there's a chair over there," John gritted out.

"I'm good."

John tried to reach over to shove Chet off but that meant stretching and moving; energy he didn't have right now. He found himself slouched back into the pillows again, chest tight like he had just ran the 440.

"Forget it," John grumbled. He picked at the edge of his blanket.

"Cheer up," Marco said as he and Stoker sat down on the empty bed next to John. "Dix said you're only here for another two days."

"And Joanne has the guest room ready when you get out of here," Roy reminded him.

"And you're back on duty a week later," Cap added, his brow furrowed. He gave John a look which pretty much told John that his plan to cajole Cap to let him come back sooner was not going to work. John made a face but he peered up at Roy and thought about how the shadows were still under Roy's eyes. Guess being waited on hand and foot for a few days couldn't hurt, John thought. He gave Roy a toothy grin, to which Roy rolled his eyes as if he knew what John was thinking. Somehow, Roy always seemed to have the knack for that.

"Great." John offered the rest of the guys a crooked smile. "Appreciate you guys coming here on your day off." He squinted at the box Stoker set down on the pull out table. "What's that?"

"Heard you missed out on this before." Cap patted the box like it was a big, friendly dog. "We thought we'd bring you some."

"Unfortunately," Chet snickered, "We couldn't get Marco's sister to make that meatloaf again."

John blanched. Wait, he remembered that greenish gray lump. "Uh…"

"Glad to hear you liked it so much," Marco piped in. "My sister's trying something new. Hey, I'll bring some over for you guys to try!"

Cap hesitated. He asked carefully. "What is it?"

"Tofu burgers."

Roy fidgeted. He cleared his throat. "T-tofu…tofu burgers?"

John made a face. "Ain't tofu that white, wiggly…oh…" John swallowed. "Sounds delicious."

Chet guffawed. "No turkey or tofu in there. Just some good ole fashion Stoker fried chicken."

"Bon appetit!" Mike quipped.

"Um…" John hedged as he watched Chet and Marco eagerly open up the carton and steam from Mike's chicken wafted up. Cap clapped his hands together in appreciation.

"What is it?" Leave it to Roy to know something was wrong.

John scratched his jaw. He laughed awkwardly, looking up at everyone. Chet already had a drumstick in each fist, getting crumbs over John's bed, Cap stopped midway from pulling out his favorite piece (Cap only liked the dark meat) and Mike cocked his head at John, his hands still holding onto the plates he was passing around.

"Well," John averted his gaze but that didn't work because everywhere he tried, there was a mild frown turned in his direction. John brushed a hand over his chest.

"You see, I guess with everything going on…I-I and well, Doc said it's only natural I was still feeling kinda tired…" And drained, dizzy, wobbly and so darn thirsty all the time. "And the food here is just…well…you know…" John squirmed.

"No, we don't know…" Roy said. He leaned forward, a hand on John's arm, his brow furrowed. "What?"

John cringed and he shrugged one shoulder at them, his eyes on Roy. He smiled sheepishly.

"I'm not really hungry."

Roy's eyes widened and crinkled into that mix of exasperation and humor John pretty much knew and relied on when things got rough. If nothing else went right, John knew at least he could count on Roy; more reliable than any lifebelt or line he held on to. His partner never stayed mad at him too long and it didn't matter if John was drowning, choking or flailing in the dark, John knew whose hand would be reaching down to pull him up.

Roy shook his head even as the others groaned. Mike slapped a hand to his face. Cap and Marco pretended to throw a piece of chicken at him. Chet set down a plate hot and heaping full of chicken and coleslaw on his lap while muttering "Well you're eating anyway, Gage."

John grabbed a drumstick, raised it up in salute and grinned.

* * *

**The End**

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**Acknowledgments:** This never would have been finished without my beta ldyanne, who's has to endure grammar tenses, rewrites, major delays and "what if" questions from me. Thank you, babe!

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_Feedback is like cookies. I **like **cookies. LOL._


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